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Sitting in front of my bed playing King and Queen.
Our birthday the next year, and the first taste of cake I ever had. It had been ruined when my dad came in and slammed his fist into it, breaking the pony on top, but at least I’d had a bite.
I smiled as my vision turned dark.
I’m coming for you, Pace.
I’m coming.
It’s so warm. How nice.
The last thought I had before water overtook me was that I was strong. I’d jumped when I wanted to run. I’d fought when I wanted to scream.
My brother would be proud.
And soon we would be together.
My nightmare: over.
CHAPTER THREE
“It takes many steppingstones, you know, for a man to rise. None can do it unaided.” —Joe Bonanno
Santino
Bullets speared through the water, nearly striking me as the muscles in my arms burned against the rough, cold waves. It was too dark to see much of anything—thank God she had blond hair. I dove toward the slabs of broken concrete and black rocks that formed the edge of the cliff. Beneath the water, I spotted a faint flash of white.
She was sinking fast.
Because she was fucking panicking.
Her eyes were open, petrified.
She was sucking in water.
Shit.
Muscles strained as I grabbed her arm and tugged her to the surface. Her body was limp against my chest, her head lolled forward and then to the side, her blond hair was matted to the cuts on her face.
“Don’t you fucking die,” I hissed as I swam us to the mouth of an inlet where I’d hidden the boat in some reeds. I heaved her body over the edge and jumped in, clothes soaked with lake water impeding my progress as they tried to drag me below the water’s surface. After maybe thirty seconds, I was in.
She was lifeless against the deck.
I laid her flat and started chest compressions, not realizing how small and frail she was, until I saw my tanned hands taking up most of the real estate against her sternum.
“Come on.” …seven, eight, nine. “Come on,piccolina.”
I pinched her nose, tilted her head back, and pressed my mouth to hers, giving her my air in a way that felt too personal for words.
I took lives.
I didn’t save them.
I didn’t offer my air, my help. If she wasn’t my only way to freedom, I would have left her; it wasn’t worth getting shot over, even now, we were running out of time. Men would be searching for us.
She had to breathe.
And we had to get the hell out of there.
