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At least I don’t have to break into the room.
There’s a ledge along the side of the building leading to a shed on the far side of the house. If I can get over to the shed, it’s just low enough that I can jump down without getting hurt.
I slide along the house, peeking in through every window before I cross over. Hopping down to the shed is more intimidating than I’d thought it would be, and I narrowly avoid spraining my ankle as I land.
But I do land, and now I’m on the ground floor.
I creep over to the window, and I’m relieved to see that Marcello isn’t in his office at all. While I’d expect him not to ever leave his windows open, I have no time to deliberate his reasoning. I need to get in that room and call the police.
Crawling in through the window is a feat in and of itself, being slightly above the normal height for a window and just a bit narrower. I do manage to toss myself into the room onto the floor, remaining silent for a moment to make sure he hasn’t heard me.
My heart races as I scramble to my feet, and I’m so nervous that I can hardly feel my hands. My stomach is heavy with a sense of dread that I can’t place or pin down, but it’s real enough to stop me dead in my tracks before I have the courage to continue onward.
I’m halfway there.
I run through the potential codes in my head, entering the first as precisely as I can. Of course, it’s incorrect, but I’m able to crack it with the second code. I’m eternally grateful to myself for paying attention to this particular detail despite being in constant survival mode. I’ve afforded myself a massive opportunity to save myself.
I begin to dial 113, but when I hear the line start to ring, I panic and hang up. What would I even tell the police? Why didn’t I run through this part in my head before I got here?
There isn’t an address I can give them, not even a landmark that I can describe to them. I don’t know what city I’m in or even what postal code.
I want to scream at myself for being so careless, but then I take another deep breath and allow myself to start over.
Should I call my mom instead?
Waves of panic begin to grip me, but I take control again and dial my mom’s number. I’m not sure if it’ll even go through, but it’s the last shot I have.
When the ringing begins, I want to burst into tears. I want to cry to my mom about how I’ve been taken prisoner by the mafia, how I was forced to quit my job under duress, and how I’m living in a bedroom handcuffed to the bed frame.
The problem is that she would be so hysterically worried about me that she wouldn’t give me enough time to coach her through anything that could help me. She would go completely ballistic, and I’m positive I would get caught and killed. Maybe he would even keep her on the phone with me when he killed me.
Fuck.
“Hello?” she says cautiously. She’s always been wary of unknown numbers, and I’m certain that a foreign number raises even more alarm bells.
“Hi mom, it’s me,” I say as quietly as I can, cupping my hand over the receiver to keep myself as undetectable as possible.
“Hi sweetie, I haven’t heard from you in a day or so. Did you break your phone?” she asks casually. If only she knew what was really going on.
“No, but I did lose my passport, so I’m going to be here a little longer than I expected. I’ll probably be tied up with all of that for the next couple of weeks, so don’t panic if you don’t hear from me, okay?”
She pauses for a moment, and everything in me is screaming at me to tell her the truth. She’s the only person I have right now.
“How did you manage to lose your passport? Don’t you only go to work and back to your hotel? You’d better not be getting up to anything like you did the last time you were abroad. I can’t be responsible for another set of twins, dear,” she replies haughtily.
“I’m not sure. If I knew, I could probably find it on my own. But I’ll be tied up with the American embassy for a little while, and I just wanted to let you know,” I respond. I need to cut this call short, but I’m not ready to let go of my one lifeline even if I’m not using it.
“Alright, I can keep watching the boys if you need more time. That’s not ever an issue. How is everything going there?” she asks, her tone changing from mild annoyance to her regular chirpy self.
“I’d love to talk more, but I’m at work, and I’ve really got to go. I love you, though, okay? Really, I love you,” I say with a sense of urgency.
A pause.
“I love you too, June. You’re starting to scare me, though.”
I’d give anything to explain, but I just can’t. Marcello will be back in his office any minute now, and if he finds me, I’m fucked.
“Okay, bye!” I stammer in a panic as I hang up the phone.
