by Lana Sky
“Is it safe?” Ama calls from above.
“I…I don’t know,” I admit. “But we don’t have a choice.”
I can sense her wrestling with the same indecision plaguing me. Finally, she sighs.
“I need to send my child down first.” Fear distorts her voice, even more pronounced. Her child. She may as well have said her life.
“Okay. It’s okay.” I position myself beneath the vent and raise my arms. “You can lower him down.”
Pale limbs pierce the dark, lowered with the utmost care. Ama’s son is a thin, wiry boy with a mop of wild, blond hair obscuring delicate features. He stares down on me warily, his eyes massive in the dark.
“Do you have him? Please! Do you have him?”
“Y-yes,” I croak, jolting back to awareness. As the child is lowered by his hands, I grab a metal folding chair and stand on it, grabbing him by the waist. Tiny hands paw at my shoulders, gripping tight until I climb from the chair and set him down.
By the time I look up, a slender woman has already unfurled herself from the ceiling to balance precariously on the edge of the chair. Observing her in shadow, I first think she’s beautiful. Alarmingly so. Dark hair hangs down to her waist, shrouding a slight frame covered only in a thin, gray dress.
In contrast, the boy is wearing a crisp white shirt and pants that I can tell even in the dark are of expensive quality. He must be the relative of a Winthorp associate. One of Robert’s business partners, maybe? The moment his mother descends from the chair, he races to her. “Ama!”
She lifts him, clutching him to her chest. “Now what do we do?” she asks, her face stricken with panic.
“We…” I scan the room and spot a door left ajar at the other end of it. A faint strip of light illuminates potential freedom. “We keep moving,” I say, leading the way toward it. “We can’t stop now.”
Chapter 9
I would say that my life has been devoid of anything resembling luck thus far. Maybe the fates have finally smiled upon me, because beyond the laundry room, we find a stairwell extending down.
I lead the way, my heart in my throat, but at the base of the steps, propped open with a cinder block, is yet another door.
Fresh air tickles my nose, acrid and heavy—but it’s too good to be true. I know that even before I hear the low, grating hum of a man whistling nearby.
“Shhh,” I hiss to Ama, who goes still on the bottom step.
Inching forward along the wall, I spot the culprit of the sound. He’s leaning against the outside of the building, blowing cigarette smoke into the open air. Dressed in a bulky shirt and jeans, he doesn’t seem like one of Robert’s men. A worker of this building perhaps?
I scan him more intently, deciphering what little clues I can. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up enough to reveal a tattoo on his forearm: a gyrating serpent intertwined with a cross.
Frantic, Ama paws at my shoulder. “There’s someone there,” she breathes against my ear. “What now?”
My eyes go to the makeshift doorjamb, and once again, I channel Mischa. What was it he told Mouse? You can’t hesitate.
“Wait!” Ama gasps as I slink forward. “What are you doing?”
I’m not sure. I can’t let myself think it through, either. Quietly, I stoop for the brick and replace it with my bare foot. My leg trembles, fighting to support the door’s weight as I lift the brick as high as I can—which is mere inches from the ground.
You want to die a pathetic little bitch? my imaginary Mischa goads. Then go back. Let him inside you again. Be his whore again. His wife. His toy.
Inhaling sharply, I force myself to focus. Luckily, the man isn’t paying the doorway any attention. He doesn’t see me creep between the sliver of open space, hefting the brick even higher. A single question crosses my mind: Could I really hit a stranger?
Kill him?
Yes…
No?
But as Ama said, Robert owns this building. Anyone here works first and foremost for him and the Winthorps. So I shut off the part of my brain urging me to retreat and count to three.
One…
Two…
Just as I tense to spring forward, the man turns and strolls up a concrete path in the opposite direction, still whistling. I give myself only seconds to recognize the change in fate before I shoulder the door open fully and beckon Ama through it.
The bracing night air greets us like a slap, cold and unforgiving. My bare feet register hard pavement beneath them, and the only real source of light comes from an orange bulb jutting above the door.
At least the man is gone from view—for now.
Beyond the narrow exit, a parking lot stretches across the entire width of a massive brick building. As Ama claimed, it’s grand enough to be a hotel—but a reclusive one, used only by the Winthorps, I suspect.
Looming shapes betray a few vehicles. The nearest one is a massive white van. It’s only as I race toward it that I realize I still have the brick in my grasp. In the darkness, I notice Ama eyeing it, and she clutches her son even tighter to her chest.
“Shh, my darling,” she soothes as he starts to whimper. “Shh… Everything is fine—”
“We have to get out of here.” I approach the van and tug on the first door I can reach. “Shit!”
It’s locked. Just as I spot a car a few yards away, that guttural whistle returns.
“Damn it,” I hiss. “We need to find—”
“Over here.” Ama waves frantically from the other side of the van. “I think I’ve opened it!”
Sure enough, I circle around and find her propping open the door to the front seat with her hip.
“Thank God!” I slam the button on the console to unlock the rest. “Get in.”
“Can you drive?” the woman asks fearfully as I claim the driver’s seat.
I don’t answer her. Once again, fate has chosen to both mock and reward me. The owner of this vehicle left the keys in the ignition.
As well as a knife on the passenger’s seat.
A reddish liquid paints the surface and my stomach churns. I wrench the glove compartment open and find a wad of tissues, which I toss over the weapon for the child’s sake.
Then I palm the steering wheel and try to breathe.
“Hold on,” I warn as I rack my brain for every lesson Mischa taught me. Brake, I recall, identifying that particular pedal. Gas.
After that? Hope and prayer.
“I can do this,” I murmur. Then I glance in the rearview mirror and my blood runs cold.
The smoking man has returned. Only now, he stands awkwardly, his neck craned, his hand positioned over his eyes like a visor as he stares in our direction.
“Oh God,” Ama chokes out. “He’ll spot us soon, if he hasn’t already.”
“We’re fine,” I insist.
But there isn’t even time to panic.
Aiming my gaze on a clear path through the lot, I twist the key and slam on the gas. The van jerks beneath me, a living, untamable thing. I have to throw myself against the steering wheel to narrowly avoid hitting another vehicle.
“Careful!” Ama cries. “Please…”
Mingled with her voice is a softer whine that tugs at my heart.
“It’s fine,” I rasp.
Fortunately, the parking lot is surrounded by a stretch of desolate fields, and in the distance, a lone road leads to the horizon. I don’t recognize this area—which only reinforces the fact that I barely know a world beyond Winthorp Manor.
I could be leading us to a dead end. A river. A lake. A cliff.
For a second, I can’t suppress that panicked, pathetic part of me Robert Winthorp nurtured for so damn long.
What am I doing? I should return. Give in. Surrender.
But Mischa’s voice is louder, drowning out all other thoughts in my head.
Run, Little Rose. Fucking run.
I drive for hours until the van slows to a crawl despite how hard I slam on the gas pedal. A straining groan issues
from the engine with every attempt.
“We’re out of petrol,” Ama points out, her voice thin. Around a yawn, she warns, “We won’t make it far on foot.”
She sounds more realistic than pessimistic, but the point is the same: Without the van, it’s only a matter of time until we wind up caught in the net of one monster or the other.
Suspiciously, I don’t think we’ve been followed. Yet.
“They must not have noticed we’re gone,” Ama says as if reading my mind. I glance back and find her staring pensively from the window, stroking her son’s hair. “But not for long.”
I copy her, unnerved by the lightening sky. Eventually, I have no choice but to pull over onto the side of the road before the engine dies altogether. The surrounding countryside is eerily empty—something that I doubt is a regular occurrence.
Robert is powerful enough to keep certain roads clear at his leisure. All it takes is money pressed into the right hands to have traffic temporarily diverted, robbing us of any helpful passerby.
And blocking off the route of any potential rescue from a certain mafiya leader in the process.
“We can’t stay here.” I shoulder the door open on my end and step out onto shockingly cold gravel. A chilling breeze cuts through the thin fabric of my nightgown and reinforces the fact that I’m barefoot.
So are Ama and her son.
Just how far will we make it like this? Biting my lip, I smother the thought.
“Come on. We need to keep moving.” I reach back into the van and grab the knife, holding it awkwardly in my damaged hand.
“We’re ready.” Ama moves stiffly, never letting go of her son for a second. Once out of the van, she faces me. “Where will we go…” She trails off, her eyes wide as she takes me in in the full light of day.
I know I’m staring at her as well.
She’s alarmingly pale. So pale that she glows, but the pallor just enhances her beauty. And her smooth, unblemished skin only serves as a harsh contrast to mine: sliced and bruised and swollen.
“I don’t know,” I say as I turn away, shrouding as much of my face as I can behind my uninjured hand. “Come. Let’s go.”
“Ama!”
I look back and find the boy squirming in her arms.
“It’s her,” he says, pointing at me. His other hand claws at his neck and tugs a necklace from beneath the collar of his shirt. It’s beautiful, if simple: a slender gold chain supporting a square-shaped charm. “The angel—”
“Hush, my darling.” Ama turns his face toward her chest and shushes him until he goes silent.
My cheeks heat as I turn toward a swath of trees—the only coverage in view—and start walking, wincing as the uneven terrain tears at my bare heels. In theory, two women and a child shouldn’t go far without being recaptured.
But, somehow, we reach the edge of the forest unaccosted. From there, it’s a slow, painful trek toward nowhere. Brambles claw at my skin. Holding the knife, I’m weighed down as much as Ama. My exhausted, broken body can only go so far before my legs threaten to give out entirely.
“We…need…rest,” Ama croaks in between panting breaths. Her arms quiver as she readjusts the boy on her hip. “Just for a moment—”
“We can’t,” I insist, even as my trembling hand clings to a nearby branch for balance. I feel it in the pit of my soul: If we stop now, it’s over. “They’ve had nearly a day to hunt us down.”
As I retrace our steps in my head, I realize how pathetically little we’ve traveled overall. Finding us will be child’s play if they aren’t encroaching on our position already.
And, God, I can sense them now: specters in every flickering shadow and rustling of distant leaves. I tighten my grip on the knife as much as possible, but with as weak as I am, I can barely brandish it higher than my knee.
Still, I stagger forward, grasping for another tree or branch. “We can’t stop moving—”
“Someone’s coming!” Ama cries.
Panic surges up my throat, robbing my voice, as my straining ears catch the same sound: the telltale crunch of footsteps expertly traversing the underbrush.
“N-no.” Moisture floods my eyes, and it takes every ounce of strength I can muster to blink back the forming tears. “Hide,” I spit toward Ama, but I don’t check to see if she obeys.
Instead, I shift my focus toward putting as much distance between us as possible—and making as much noise as I can in the process.
I’ll die rather than go back to Robert, but maybe I can ensure that I’m the only one forced to choose that fate.
And it seems our pursuer has taken the bait. His footsteps advance on me rapidly, growing less stealthy the closer he comes. Soon, I can hear him breathing. Panting.
I wait until I assume he’s close enough to grab me. Then I pivot, lashing out with the knife. “Stay away from me!”
He grunts in shock, narrowly avoiding the blade. Then he grabs my arm and the game is over. Iron strength nearly takes me off my feet.
“Do you really think you can stab me, Little Rose?” he hisses.
I look at him sharply and blink. My eyes are playing tricks. Or maybe he’s a joke conjured by delirium.
The figure before me certainly could be such a specter: a haggard-looking Mischa, his chin covered in stubble. His bloodshot eyes are honed like lasers, taking in my thin, beautiful nightgown and coifed hair. He opens his mouth, presumably to say something. A quip?
But I’m too tired to hear it.
“Mischa!” I throw myself toward him, and his arms encircle my waist. My face finds the crook of his shoulder and I breathe him in, relishing the heat and the way he stiffens against me—still so fucking suspicious. I can’t humor him now. I try to speak, but all I can do is moan and go limp.
Something in my appearance keeps him silent. I’m in his arms within seconds, held tightly to his chest. His heartbeat plays a steady rhythm as he starts to move, racing through the underbrush. It’s only now that I remember.
“Wait,” I croak, bracing my hand against his shoulder.
“What is it?”
“There’s someone else—”
“What?” He cranes his neck back and then goes rigid.
Following the line of his gaze, I see why.
Ama didn’t run and hide after all. In the dim light filtering between the trees, she looks almost ethereal, her hair falling like a cloak. Wide-eyed, she gapes at Mischa. Then she sinks to her knees, still clutching her son to her chest. Her pink lips flutter, forming the same sound over and over, but it’s wasted seconds before my brain can finally interpret it. A name.
“M-Mischa?”
The arms around me loosen, and I’m forced to stand, clinging to his shoulder for balance.
“No… You’re dead.” Mischa shakes his head, his expression pained. Broken. “No… Anna?”
“Oh my God!” Tears stream down Ama’s face as she rocks herself, clinging to her son so tightly that the boy whines in response. “Mischa!”
He advances on her with slow, deliberate steps. Then, suddenly, he’s on his knees, his arms thrown around her.
“Anna,” he mutters. “I can’t believe it. Anna.”
And something pangs in my chest, so subtle that I barely register it before the feeling spreads, blossoming into full-blown shock that brings me to my knees.
Anna. Anna-Natalia.
His Anna.
She’s alive.
Chapter 10
Their reunion lasts for only a second before Mischa reluctantly stands and helps Anna to her feet.
“We need to move,” he warns. But one look at her trembling body and his jaw clenches.
I was so focused on myself, but I wasn’t the only one expending every ounce of strength I have. Her knees wobble, threatening to buckle any second. From her arms, the boy stares fearfully.
It’s a miracle we came this far.
“Carry her,” I tell Mischa. “I can take the baby—”
“No!” Anna hugs the boy
to her, heedless of his plaintive cries. “I can keep moving. I can—”
“There’s no time. Here—give him to me.” Mischa reaches for the boy and Anna finally relinquishes him. Effortlessly, Mischa swings the child around, setting him on his back. “Grab my neck,” he commands, guiding the boy’s tiny hands into position. “But don’t you dare choke me.”
Before Anna can protest, she’s in his arms as well.
Meeting my gaze, Mischa inclines his head. “My men aren’t far, but we need to run. Do you understand, Rose?”
I nod, and then he’s gone at a lightning pace, picking through the underbrush with enviable grace. My lungs churn fire as I follow clumsily in his wake. There’s no space in my exhausted brain left for caution. I throw myself forward without tact, my arms flailing for balance.
I’m loud and bumbling, and worst of all…
I’m slowing him down.
The fact that he’s even in my line of sight at all betrays the lengths he’s gone through to keep pace with me, despite being encumbered as he is.
“You need to keep moving, Little Rose,” he taunts from up ahead, his breathing heavy. “Don’t you fucking dare slow down. Stay with me… Stay with me!”
“I’m…trying…” It’s a lie. Every last bit of energy I had has already been expended. Pure momentum drives me now. I’m losing speed, falling farther and farther behind. He’s merely a speck now, bobbing on the horizon.
Carried by the wind, his voice reaches me. “Don’t you dare give up. Move! Or do you want to get captured?”
Bastard. I keep going, if only out of spite. Gradually, his distant shape grows larger. Am I hallucinating?
No…
He’s stopped.
Gasping, I scan our surroundings and realize why; we’ve finally reached a break in the woods. Up ahead, the trees give way to a narrow field marred by tire tracks.
“What now?” I croak to Mischa.
He pays me no mind. Stepping forward, he bellows over the landscape, “To me!”
As if on cue, several men rush forward to meet us from the underbrush. Their trademark fatigues reveal their identity: the mafiya.
