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Clutching the book close to my chest, I glance around, but there is no one here to witness the monumental discovery I have just made. With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly peel the book away, tearing away the page that immortalises the love so clearly captured in the photograph. Gently, I tuck the image into my bra before leafing through the remaining pages of the album. Several more snapshots of Rosa with Elena surface before I turn to the portrait page.
Rosa Mancini - voted most likely to save the world.
A hushed sob wracks my body, resonating with sorrow for never knowing the woman in the photographs. Nevereven having a chance to find out what sort of person she is. Closing the yearbook, I gingerly return it back to its place on the shelf. Has she truly been out there, changing the world? Did the prospect of motherhood hinder her path to greatness? And what about Alessandro, the man whose first name echoes mine so closely—it can’t be a coincidence. Is he with her wherever she is, looking at her as if she was the world’s greatest wonder, just as he did the moment the picture was taken?
Dusting my jeans off, I get up, my heart lodged in my throat, a cacophony of unanswered questions swirling around in my head. It’s time to tell Freddie I’m ready to head back.
Except, as I approach the door he last stood next to, unease settles in. He’s not there. Silently, I walk past the rows of shelves and push the door ajar, encountering an obstacle. Something is blocking the door. I shove at it more forcefully pushing at whatever’s obstructing my exit on the other side.
“Fred?” I whisper, my eyes scanning the dark corridor in both directions. It’s only when I look all the way down and whatever is in my way, I spot it.
The leg of a body lying on the floor.
Gasping, I cover my mouth with my shaking hands, recoiling a step back only to collide with something hard.
“Hello, little Carusso,” a menacing growl reverberates, sending a shiver of fear coursing through my entire being. “You should be dead.”
Before I can even comprehend the threat hanging in the air, something heavy hits the back of my head, and the world plunges into darkness.
42
ALESSA
Ihave a splitting headache and my right arm is dead. But I don’t make a sound when I come to. Lying on a dusty hardwood floor, my hands and legs tied behind me I keep my eyes closed and try to breathe steady, listening for any sounds.
Once I’m satisfied I’m alone, I peer around me from underneath my lashes. The room I’m in seems empty. The furniture around me is covered in white sheets and the floor has a thick layer of dust disturbed with footprints and a large track going from the door to where I’m lying. Nice. The kidnappers couldn’t even carry me to the middle of the room dragging me on the floor instead; I swear if they snagged my jacket on anything I’ll be livid.
This is not the first time I find myself in a precarious situation, with my hands tied behind my back. I’ve stolen things from powerful people who don’t appreciate thieves, I counted cards, lied and made enemies, and I always managed to come out the other side unscathed. It’s why I was always on the move. But this is the first time I have no idea why I’ve been taken hostage. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough, though, so, instead of wasting time, I should betrying to get myself out of these binds before anyone comes back into the room.
Bending backwards I get to work on the chaotic mess of knots securing my feet together, my tied hands working swiftly. The kidnapper must really have me mistaken for some kind of damsel in distress, who wouldn’t even think of escaping because it takes me less than a minute to undo the sad excuse for restraints. As soon as the rope is untied, I wiggle my arms over my bent legs and get to work on the knots around my wrists. They are a lot tighter than the ones around my feet were. With a resourceful twist, I clasp the rope between my teeth, leveraging every ounce of determination to get free within me. I pull at the strands, taking care to loosen the knots, until finally there is enough give in them I can wriggle my wrists free.
Sitting up, I take the time to look around, taking in the space around me. Judging by the glimpses of the sky and the tree peeking from between the window covering I’m on higher ground. First or second floor maybe, which means escape via that route is most likely out of the question. Listening for any sounds of movement from behind the door I get up, the rope which bound me firmly in my hands as I quietly creep to the window, moving the curtain slightly to figure out my next steps. To my dismay, I find the window boarded up, one of the nails must have rusted over, as the slither of sky I saw before is coming from a space where a wooden board must have fallen off. I’m also definitely not on ground level.
Just as I make my way back to where I woke up I hear footsteps outside. Without a thought, I drop to the ground wrapping the rope around my legs and wrists, my heart hammering in my chest as I try to steady my breathing and look unconscious.
The door creaks open and a slither of light falls on my face. I don’t move a muscle.
“She’s still out.” I hear a man’s voice.
“I’m not blind.” The second voice is raspy, marred with wheezes in between each word, like whoever is speaking has just run a marathon.
I fight the urge to half open my eyes and see who I’m up against, the only thing stopping me—the knowledge that as soon as they realise I’m awake they’ll need to do something about me. For now, I’m safer staying unconscious.
“I don’t have all night to wait for her to wake up,” the wheezy voice says.
“Do you want me to shoot her?”
Or maybe I’m not so safe. Fuck.
“No. Wake her up.”
As footsteps draw near me, I keep my breathing steady despite the urge to hold my breath until the person stops right in front of me.
I pray they don’t notice my shoddy attempt at pretending I’m still tied, but before I can even start worrying about it, pain shoots through my body as a heavy boot connects with my stomach.
I gasp in pain, the instinct to curl in on myself overwhelming as nausea takes over, yet I keep still, fighting the tears threatening to spill. The sole of the boot that kicked me rests against the side of my face, digging into my cheek and pressing my head into the cold hardwood floor. Panic settles beneath my ribcage. This is bad. Very, very bad.
“Wake up, little birdie, or I’ll smoosh your pretty face until your brain pops out through your cracked skull,” he menaces, pushing his boot harder into my face.
