Page 38 of Control

I laugh again, softer this time. “I’ll try not to.”

She shakes her head, muttering under her breath. “Artists. Always walking the line between genius and criminal.”

****

The restroom smells faintly of bleach and something musty, like old water trapped in the grout. It’s dim, one flickering bulb above the mirror casting uneven shadows.

My reflection in the cracked glass looks worn out—eyes sunken, skin pale. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.

The sound of a door creaking and heavy boots pulls me from my thoughts. I glance toward the door and the flimsy lock holding it shut. I hold my breath, praying it’s just my imagination. But then I hear a sharp knock.

“Open up,” one of the guards mutters, his voice low and tense.

I push the door open slowly, expecting the usual stern expression and clipped instructions. Instead, his face is different—tight with worry. He steps inside, shutting the stall door behind him. There’s no explanation, no time to ask why he’s breaking the professional barrier he never crosses. His hand grips my arm, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to tell me this isn’t a game.

“Out. Now.”

“What?” My voice cracks. “What’s going on?”

“Not a question session, Volpi.” He pulls a gun from the holster at his side and shoves it into my hands. “Jump out the window and run. Don’t stop. Don’t think. You hear me?”

I stare at the gun, the weight of it foreign and cold against my palms. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do it!” He spins back around, the barrel of his weapon aimed squarely at the restroom door. His shoulders tense like he’s waiting for an explosion. “They’re coming. You don’t have time.”

“They? Who’s—” My words die as a muffled shout echoes outside, followed by something heavier—a loud thud against the floor.

I can’t move. My legs freeze like cement, my mind spinning uselessly through half-formed questions. “Why are you doing this? Aren’t you supposed to—”

“Protect you? That’s what I’m doing.” Then his voice drops, hoarse and biting. “Jump, Daniela. Don’t look back.”

I stumble toward the narrow window. It’s high, the glass dirty and smudged. When I unlatch it and shove it open, cold air bites my face. My pulse pounds faster and louder than the voices behind the door.

I glance over my shoulder. “Are you coming?”

He doesn’t answer. He just raises his gun and aims it at the door like a soldier facing his last stand. My heart twists. I don’t know this man’s name. I’ve seen his face a hundred times, but I never thought to ask. And now, he’s staying behind and sacrificing himself so I can run.

The first gunshot shatters the silence, and the sound sends a jolt through me. My body takes over, acting on instinct. I hoist myself onto the ledge and push off, falling to the alley below. The landing isn’t graceful. Pain shoots through my knees as I hit the pavement, but I bite back the curse on my tongue. There’s no time for pain.

I run.

The air feels heavier than it should, each breath scraping against my lungs like sandpaper. I dart through the narrow streets as the sound of more gunfire cracks behind me. It echoes off the walls, sharp and relentless. My mind races faster than my feet, and questions flood in.

Who was coming for me? How did they know where I’d be? Why did the guard sacrifice himself?

And then the darker thoughts creep in, the ones I can’t shove away. Maybe this was all a setup. Maybe the guard wasn’t saving me but pushing me into another trap. It wouldn’t be the first time someone used kindness as a weapon.

I shake the thought away. It’s too late to turn back now.

My chest burns, and my legs scream for rest, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Stopping means dying, and I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

A sharp turn leads me to a quiet street, darker and emptier than the others. The faint hum of streetlights buzzes overhead, casting an eerie glow on the cracked pavement. I slow, only slightly, and fumble with the phone in my pocket. My fingers are slick with sweat, trembling as I swipe across the screen.

The number’s already programmed. I press call.

It rings once. Twice. Then his voice cuts through, low and sharp. “Where are you?”

“Remo.” My voice breaks, barely a whisper. “I—someone—”

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