Page 50 of The Voicemail

“I’m so sorry, Elena,” he says without any explanation. “I thought this would make it easier, but I was clearly wrong.”

“You’re damn right!” I yell. “If you were looking for something, you could have just asked me. What the hell are you looking for?”

“A file,” he says. “Whatever you took from the Marchesi crate at the gallery.”

I blink back at him in surprise. The anger flowing through me is momentarily replaced with confusion.

“What file?” I ask. “I didn’t take anything from the Marchesi crate.”

“He thinks you did,” he answers somberly.

“Elio Marchesi?” I ask, confused. “I don’t even know the man.”

He lets out a long breath before looking up at me. Whatever he’s about to say must be particularly bad, because the hesitation is written all over his face.

“There’s no such person as Elio Marchesi,” he says carefully, clearly waiting for my reaction. “The man who actually sent that crate is a known mafia boss. He thinks you stole something from him, and that’s why he sent one of his men after you.”

The room starts to spin, and I force myself to sit. “No,” I say automatically. “None of that makes any sense.”

“I told you before that the man after you was dangerous, Elena,” he says calmly. “I told you this was something the police couldn’t help you with. I wasn’t trying to scare you then. Hell, I’m not trying to scare you now.”

“No,” I repeat. “You’re just trying to cover your ass. You’re trying to invent some big, bad boogeyman to cover the fact that you have no respect for my things.”

It’s a weak argument that I don’t even believe. I just desperately need to grab onto anything logical. Anything that doesn’t involve the mafia and hitmen.

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help much. My chest is tight, and my stomach churns in that warning way that started yesterday. I’m probably going to throw up any second. Part of me wants to do it all over his expensive carpet.

I think of the life growing inside of me, and balk at the realization. The man across from me is the father. The man who apparently doesn’t believe in privacy or agency. The man who, despite telling me his home isn’t a prison, hasn’t let me go to my own apartment in nearly a month.

What the hell am I doing here? How have I let him chip away so completely at my life? I was afraid for so long that when I met him, I put myself on autopilot. That isn’t an option anymore. I’m pregnant. If he knew, he’d become even more controlling. I’d probably never see the sun again.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Take all the time you need to process this,” he answers patiently. “You have every right to be upset.”

I shake my head. “I don’t mean I have to leave this room,” I tell him. “I mean I’m leaving this place. I’m going home. Or to a friend’s place. Anywhere that isn’t here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good⁠—”

“I didn’t fucking ask what you thought!” I scream at him. “Just like you didn’t ask what I thought about you going through my things. If this really isn’t a prison and I really still get to have my own life, then you’ll let me leave.”

He watches me carefully for a moment. There’s not a trace of anger on his face, and no guilt either. He either doesn’t care what he’s done or he’s very good at hiding it.

“Okay,” he says. “Do what you need to do.”

I’m too angry to analyze why he doesn’t fight me. I go back to my room and start throwing things into my suitcase. I don’t bother with my stuff in the other room. For all I know, Luca and his men are still going through it. It feels tainted now. I don’t want any of it with me anyway.

Once I’m packed, I pull out my phone and do what I should have done an hour ago. I call Maya. She picks up immediately.

“You okay, Ellie?” she asks. “You never call me this early.”

At the sound of her voice, the tears start flowing. I can’t help it. All the adrenaline and anger are gone, leaving only sadness and fear.

“I need you to come get me,” I say through sobs. “Can I stay with you for a while?”

16

ALEX