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The younger one, Gio, who’s in his late teens, squares his shoulders. His voice breaks but pushes through. “Ricci said no one touches her.”
The name slams into me. Ricci. The whispers from years ago intrude again. Dad’s voice late at night, low and grim. “The Benedettis’ blade. The Enforcer.”
Is he the same man from the highway?
Vito spins, jabbing his finger into the boy’s chest. “Shut your mouth, Gio. You think you know better than me? We brought her here. We did the work. And now the Padrino gives her to Ricci like some trophy?”
The kid steps back with a flinch, mumbling something I can’t catch. My heart pumps so fast, I worry my chest will explode. Why would Ricci, of all men, care if I’m touched? The irony gnaws at me.
Hours blur together until I can no longer measure the time. My toes throb, my legs numb from pressing against the cold floor.
I might never make it out of here. Never see my mother or the little kids I teach again.
I breathe in and out, slowly, utilizing the same skills I’ve taught five-year-olds to get through first aid to their scraped knees or calm themselves before tests.
I need to stay calm. My father once told me panic only wastes energy and clouds the mind. Funny how hard I’ve worked to forget Vincent considering his lessons surface exactly when I need them.
I remain as inconspicuous as possible, and I am ignored until, eventually, the soldiers drift away to eat. Their sharp, careless laughter scrapes along the walls as they go, like they’ve forgotten I even exist. Only Gio remains, per Vito’s orders.
Five minutes later, Vito brings two plates of food, and we’re left alone again.
The boy lingers near the doorway and shifts his weight, his boots scuffing softly. He sets one plate down, and when he finally approaches, he offers the other, along with a half-crushed plastic bottle.
“Eat.” I’ve heard that exact crack before from boys standing in line for flu shots who insisted they didn’t cry.
I accept the pitiful excuse for sustenance. The bread is hard enough to knock on, the meat rubbery and gray. Even so, I don’t hesitate. I chew fast and swallow faster. The water, though warm and faintly metallic, still feels like mercy.
Gio won’t meet my eyes. He’s young, barely a man, with a soft expression that doesn’t belong to someone carrying a gun. His hands fidget constantly, tugging his sleeves and brushing his belt.
My brain slips into teacher mode.
When my kindergarten kids are scared, they get all twitchy, their eyes dart, and their voices become shrill.
This boy isn’t like the other men. Not yet. I can use that to my advantage.
I soften myself on purpose and slump my shoulders. “Gio? Thank you for the meal.” I let my voice quiver a bit. “You’ve been real nice to me.”
He stiffens like he’s been caught doing precisely the wrong thing. Color crawls up his neck. He glances at me, then quickly away. “Don’t think this means anything,” he mutters. “Just following orders.”
“Of course,” I gentle my voice, the way I might while soothing a child. “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to.” I pause before starting again. “You’re very responsible.”
He only responds by straightening his spine a fraction.
I need to draw out his curiosity, not trigger his defenses. “You’re new, right?” I keep my tone light and interested as I shuffle closer. “First time guarding someone alone?”
“I’ve been around,” he snaps. “And don’t come near me.”
But his eyes slide away, and his mouth tightens. I recognize false bravado the way I recognize it from the finger-painted faces I see daily.
“Oh…sorry,” I say, flooding the space with apology. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just…panicked earlier.” I offer a small, shaky smile. “That was wrong of me. I just wanted to… You’ve actually been kind.”
His posture eases. Guilt does the work for me.
“Could I have a little more water? Please?”
He hesitates, then exhales before kneeling to slide the bottle closer. For a moment, his face isn’t a soldier’s at all. He’s just a boy who doesn’t want to be the villain in someone else’s story.
I don’t give myself time to think.
