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I lift my bag, waiting for his consent. I don’t need the laptop, but I’m trying to buy time. For what, I’m not sure.
What if he kills us? Mila doesn’t deserve this. At least my son has a father now.
A mother bear awakens within me. I left my son with this lunatic so many times. Thoughts scramble wildly in my mind, not helping the situation.
“Okay, get your laptop out, but don’t try anything funny.”
I pull my computer out and open it. I will my fingers to stop trembling and somehow I type.
“What’s taking so long? Do you need an incentive?” Frederick asks casually and Mila weeps.
I look over my laptop and see that he is holding the knife over her pinky.
With shaking hands, I put an ear bud in and start a call while keeping my eyes on his. How have I never seen the malice in those eyes? Was I so focused on my own inner struggles I missed what was right in front of me?
I talk, at first tripping over my words, but then getting the hang of it, leaving a voicemail where I even at the end offer a free dining experience with Frederick himself. This seems to placate him enough and he walks around to sit across from me.
But there is no reprieve as he grabs Mila’s other hand, holding it like a piece of meat he’s ready to carve. Her shoulders shake violently.
But he moved away from me, and I should try to take advantage of his comfortable belief that I’m not a worthy opponent.
“Okay, most of my contacts prefer a text communication. Let me shoot a message to foodiegoddess as she is the one trending currently and she usually responds immediately. She would also get something out within minutes, and it would get the others more intrigued.”
He narrows his eyes and I’m certain he sees through my bullshit, but then he nods. “What are you waiting for, text her.” At least Frederick has never cared about social media enough to get my game.
I run my fingers over the screen as quickly as possible. “And now we wait,” I say, but he swings his cleaver and hits so hard the table cracks. Mila screams through the tape and I jump up, yelling.
I want to help her, but when my gaze lands on her hand, I realize there are only wooden splinters, no blood. Again, Frederick toyed with us. Thank God. He hit the table, splitting it and scaring us to keep me in line.
“I’ll keep contacting the others.” I lift my phone. By the third call, my story is reasonably believable. With the appropriate amount of remorse and apology, I tell them thetrue story,including an invitation for a free lunch at Frederick’s for them or their followers.
As I’m about to attempt the fourth call, the police burst into the restaurant. Everything happens so fast that I barely register the action, but minutes later Mila is free and we hug and cry hysterically.
Frederick is taken away as I speak to a couple of officers, giving my statement, and Mila sits at a table where a young paramedic tries to assess her, but is failing miserably as she insists she is okay. Neither of us is okay, but we are holding up.
Even as I automatically recount the events, I feel strangely detached. As if all this was happening to someone else. As if I was the person watching while my life with a psychopath unraveled on a screen. Just an audience, not a willing—fuck,willing—participant.
I answer the questions on autopilot. And when it’s finally over I realize that a normal person would call their loved ones. But who do I call? I don’t think Massi wants my emergency call, and I don’t want to worry Seb.
As the new level of loneliness descends on me, Mila finishes speaking to her officer and dashes over.
“We need to make the calls to stop that story.” Only Mila can survive an ordeal like this and immediately think of damage control.
“There is no story. I pretend dialed the whole time.” I shrug. My body shakes and I stumble and sit down.
“I thought something was amiss when you messaged foodiegoddess. I’ve never heard of them.” While I’m boneless in the chair, Mila is bouncing around like the Duracell Bunny. We both might need medical attention after all.
I smile at her wearily. “I texted 911.”
ChapterTwenty-Six
Massi
We reach the open entrance to Modigliani’s, several uniformed men milling around the place. I spot Blue and Mila, embracing. My knees almost give out as a wave of relief washes through me. Fuck, when Mila texted I immediately jumped into a cab.
For a moment I regretted that Seb was with me because I wanted to shield him from this, but even with only twenty-four hours of parenting under my belt I know I can’t protect him from everything, and I can’t set him aside when it’s inconvenient having him around.
“Mom.” He rushes to her. I see the surprise in her eyes as she embraces our son.
