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Next I turn to the collection of bras on the bed. They are all underwired and there are two corset bras that might give me easier options.
I glance around the room, into the corners for a camera, but I see none. Not that I would. This place is state of the art. Hidden cameras are guaranteed. I’m going to have to do this in the dark, under the throw, and will see if the bras give me what I need before I desecrate the dress.
My plan is outrageous, but it’s my one and only plan. One of the bras has adjustable straps that come off for wearing a strapless dress, and I take one and tie up my hair. Thank God for that. I take a quick shower, drip dry and then put on some silky PJs. If I close my eyes and block my thoughts, I can imagine being home for a split second, as if the past few days hadn’t happened.
Wishful thinking isn’t going to get me anywhere. I slip under the throw and reach for the underwear, finding the weakest spot in the stitching and working it with my teeth until I can pull out the long wire supporting the bra. Most of them are metal, but there are plastic ones as well. When I have a fistful, I start snapping off the dipped tips on the ends. I run my fingertip over each break, looking for sharp edges.
This is so dumb. At most it would give him a paper cut. Far from deadly. Now if I had taken the wineglass, I could have broken off the stem and would have had a real sharp object. I need something that would stab into his neck, right there where you feel someone’s pulse through the thin, delicate skin. I’ll aim for one of the carotid arteries, depending on his position. I suppress a groan. Even a pencil would be better than this botched knife, and I’ll only have one shot.
I can’t give up. Who knows when we leave for Sicily. I work the corset bones on the two bras, and these give me hope. The bones are metal, and once snapped, give a nice sharp edge. When I run it along my inner arm, it pierces my skin and a warm trickle of blood drips to the mattress. Bingo.
I gather the bones together in a way that they make a short blade of sorts and tie them together with another bra strap. It’s the stuff of cavemen, and I suppress a desperate and rather hysterical giggle. What I would give for a scalpel right now, but this is what I have.
The whole time I’ve been listening, and no sounds have come from the rest of the apartment. I swear every wall in here has sound-cancellation built in. One thing is for sure though: nobody has locked my door from the outside yet. I would have heard.
Must be an oversight or it could be intentional, but this is my chance. I guess around three hours have passed since I came to my room, and my fingers are raw from working the wires. It must be midnight or even past midnight by now. I slip out from under the covers and place my feet on the floor, careful to make no noise. I have my makeshift weapon tied to my wrist, ready to grab hold of it and stab. One shot at an eye will also do the trick—anything really to disable him for a few seconds so I can either grab his phone and make a beeline for the nearest hiding place to phone 911, or stab at his neck until he weakens enough from blood loss that I can walk out of here by myself.
My hand is on the doorknob; my heart is in my throat. I twist the knob, a millimeter at a time, so slowly that I’d be able to sense the least bit of resistance and could stop should it make a sound. The door latch slides open without a single protest, except for the slightest click I pray nobody heard.
I push the door open and wait.
Nothing.
I stare out into the corridor and the railing from where I watched the execution. The house is hugged in darkness, but some moonlight shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I haven’t had time to even see how you get outside to the veranda and his rooftop garden. I pad out into the corridor, on high alert. The adrenaline in my veins is making me jittery, and thinking of what I’m about to do doesn’t help. I glance down to the lounge where the clothing rails still stand. From here the evening gowns look like corpses, bodies of women sacrificed. I’ve got you, girls. I’m taking this one for the team.
There’s no sign of Matteo. My filled wineglass still waits on the coffee table, his glass empty next to mine. The bottle left standing. Negligent. Or another invitation. I can break that and stab him to death without even trying.
One step at a time, I creep down the corridor, sticking close to the wall. The place is eerily quiet, but I don’t get the feeling that I’m being watched. It’s only about thirty feet from my bedroom door to his, and by the time I get there, I’m artificially calm. His door isn’t closed but stands open an inch.
I press my forefinger against the door and its weight resists. So freaking heavy, must be made out of metal or something. Before I push it wider, I recall the layout of his bedroom. I’ve been in here twice, but both times I wasn’t paying attention. His bed stands center stage, with mirrored floor-to-ceiling closets reflecting the light that pours in from the windows.
Without a sound the door pushes open, and I curse the faint ribbon of light that falls into the darkened room. Drapes block any light from the outside. If he were awake, he’d see my silhouette. The body under the covers doesn’t move though, his length stretched out on his back, long legs just fitting on the mattress. He’s tossed the covers off to his hips, revealing that chest and the striking tattoo I still need to dissect. Maybe I will, for real, cut him up into little dragon scales. I swallow at the notion, nausea twisting in my stomach. I don’t get queasy easily and I’m not squeamish, both excellent qualities in a doctor, but this isn’t what my training is preparing me for. If I were to cut him up, the urge to stitch him together again would be even bigger.
I take a step forward and pause, listening. His breathing comes even, calm. Peaceful. Wondering how I sleep at night? I sleep just fine, kitten.
Asshole.
I palm my makeshift knife with a firm, decisive grip. I take small, painfully quiet steps until I reach the end of the bed. The need to exhale loudly is overwhelming, but I keep my breathing shallow and through my nose. A few more steps, and I’ll be at his head. My eyes have adjusted to the dark room, and I can see him perfectly now. His head on the pillow leans slightly to the side, opening his neck for me.
I have one shot at this. Just one.
Two more steps.
Pause.
Two more.
Pause.
And then I’m there, my hand slowly rising so I can put some bodyweight into the stab. I’m shaking now, chills prickling my skin, the reality of what I need to do blinding me like headlights. My hand trembles and it’s as if the collection of corset bones rattles in my palm.
“Do it, kitten,” he says, deadly calm.
I let out a horrid squeal in surprise, but he doesn’t move.
“Never hesitate. It’ll cost you your life.”
Seconds pass, in which he waits, giving me a chance to do what I came for, but time slips away like sand through my fingers.
