Page 55 of Borrowed Bride

So, I had no choice but to lay low and try to piece some semblance of a life back together. Focusing on raising Freya made the months fly by and before I knew it, the world was moving on and I was mostly forgotten.

In the streets of the city below, an exhausting war still rages between Barrone and Simone. It’s bloody and consuming the entire city by this point, but it’s been going on for so long that no one really remembers why it even started. For the Barrones, I suspect they were seeking revenge for Marco’s death, and Leonardo was responding in kind, but after five years, there’s just a lot of anger and death.

When Freya turned three, I started to notice a few things that stuck out to me. Dante would visit and constantly tell me I was safe here, and that it wasn’t safe to leave. I believed him, until one day I was climbing the walls and decided a walk would be the best way to clear my head. That was when I discovered I couldn’t leave.

The single elevator was fingerprint activated, and my prints were not in the system. When I asked Dante about it on his next visit, he told me how important these security precautions were and claimed he was only keeping me safe out of respect for Marco. Otherwise, he would toss me to the two families eager to slaughter me, and then who would protect Freya?

I realized that day that I wasn’t being kept safe. I was being kept prisoner.

Then Dante stopped visiting.

The lights stayed on, and food was still delivered each month, but other than that, I had no interaction with anyone. Dante never picked up his phone when I called, and despite spending so long shadowing me, I never heard from Fawn either. Withoutany idea what happened to Tara or Emilia, I slowly realized that the life I thought I had ended the moment Marco died.

But that didn’t keep me down for long.

Now, I’m researching.

I’ve become pretty deft at it by now, but reclaiming details from memory is complicated. In my last conversation with Marco, he showed me a folder containing the names of women and children he had helped escape this life. It was his proof that the Barrone family never touched the skin trade.

All that proof burned up with Marco, so I’ve been compiling it myself to the best of my ability. Going off of the phone numbers and names I remembered, I’ve been able to contact quite a few women that Marco helped, and all of them have been safe in new lives and speak so highly of him. I didn’t have the heart to tell any of them that he blew up and instead congratulated them on their new lives.

Unfortunately, none of them remember much about the people Marco used to get them a new life. Part of me was hoping that whoever rescued those women could help me out of this predicament, but Marco covered all his bases.

There’s no trail for me to follow.

For each five women that I find alive and safe, there’s one I can’t contact. The missing women could have simply moved on and continued to live in secret, but each time I find a woman who remains missing, I can’t help but wonder.

Marco mentioned that someone else was the bad guy, and swore he wasn’t responsible for what happened to Fawn. Was that person involved in his rescue operations, or was it just a coincidence?

My days are spent chasing shadows of the past and raising my daughter. As she gets older, my determination grows to give her the same free life that Marco gave these women, but I’m severely lacking resources.

I still have his card, but I haven’t needed to use it since Dante placed me here. I have no idea if those kinds of cards have an expiration date, or if it will even work since his death but I keep it all the same.

Because sometimes, in the dark of night when I’m buried in exploring news articles and reports on the Mafia war tearing apart the city, there will be something that catches my attention. A shadow in the crowd of the news report or a story of a heroic act with no picture and a bare-bones description; things like that catch my eye.

And I begin to wonder if Marco is alive.

Wishful thinking.

I spent the day researching a woman named Maria. Once I track down her new name, Hayley, and give her a call, I quiz her about the people who came to her house the night of her disappearance. Just like the others, she remembers faces but no names and never saw any of them again. She asks why I’m calling after eight years, and when I tell her I’m looking for those people to help someone, she wishes me luck.

It’s sweet but ultimately useless.

Freya and I eat dinner together and then I abandon the laptop and spend the rest of the evening playing cafe with her. She’s an amusing tyrant in the workplace and each time she cackles like a maniac, I’m reminded of the sharp edge to Marco’s laugh.

I miss him. I’m trapped with no way out and the longer I’m here, the more I contemplate smashing the windows and trying to climb down the outside of the building.

It works in movies, right?

By the time Freya has served me my eighth cup of cherry tea, she’s yawning her little head off, so I scoop her up and we begin our nightly routine.

A shower, a story, and then she’s tucked up in bed claiming she’s not tired right up until she falls asleep against me. I kiss her head and tuck her in, then slip from her room and beginmynightly routine.

I pour a glass of wine and wander from the open plan kitchen to the lounge with my phone in hand, intent on calling Dante until I get pissed off.

Only, instead of hitting the dial on his number, my wine glass slips from my fingers and smashes on the hardwood floor as a dark figure melts out of the shadows in my lounge. I’m a split second away from screaming in fright when the figure lowers their hood and I meet the familiar, cold eyes of Fawn Simone.

Her black hair is long gone, replaced by a platinum blonde.

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