Page 26 of Last Hand

“See you in class tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying to convince both of us there will be a tomorrow where I’m sitting next to him in a lecture, arguing about French cinema and stealing kisses between classes.

Vittorio opens the car door, gesturing me inside with mock chivalry. I force myself to move, to walk past Adrien without looking back. My legs are numb, disconnected from my body. I slide into the leather seat, the interior of the car dark and cold despite the warm spring evening.

The door closes with a soft, final click. Through the tinted window, I catch a glimpse of Adrien standing frozen on the sidewalk, his figure growing smaller as Vittorio slides in beside me and the car pulls away from the curb.

Vittorio climbs in telling the driver where to go, and I peer out the window, furious that my father would agree and also wondering what it is Vittorio Pressutti has offered this time. As far as I remember, Anatoly won, and I was to marry him after graduation. Not that I was planning to; he is just as bad as this man.

We drive to a restaurant that screams old money, and Vittorio leads me inside—crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen waterfalls, velvet banquettes in deep burgundy, waiters gliding between tables silently. I sit across from Vittorio, the white tablecloth between us like no-man’s-land in a war zone. He orders wine I can’t legally drink, food I don’t want, smiling at me the whole time like we’re on some romantic date instead of what this really is: a hostage situation with fine china that my father helped orchestrate.

“You’ll love the foie gras here,” he says, like I give a shit about goose liver when my life is imploding.

I scan the restaurant for exits. Front door: too far. Kitchen: will cause a scene. Bathroom: maybe my only shot. My throat feels tight, like someone’s slowly tightening a belt around it.

“Your father seemed quite adamant in Anatoly, I bet you’re glad I convinced him otherwise,” Vittorio continues, unfolding his napkin with meticulous precision. “Though I’m hoping to convince you to come back with me, you’ll have no need for… what is it you’re studying?”

I say nothing. The less I engage, the better. I’ve learned that lesson from years of watching my father’s business associates disappear after saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Art, that’s right. I remember you mentioning it at the gala with your father last summer.” I shrug, not caring for small talk. My father isn’t here to scold me for bad behavior, and right now all I care about is finding an excuse to get away from this man. Vittorio leans forward, elbows on the table. His eyes—deep brown, almost black—fix on mine. “I’ve flown all the way from Italy to find you, Gina. The least you could do is speak.”

The waiter arrives with wine, pouring a splash for Vittorio to taste. He nods his approval, and the waiter fills both our glasses. I don’t touch mine.

“I don’t drink,” I say finally. “It’s illegal, I’m not of age yet!”

Vittorio laughs, a sharp sound that feels like broken glass. “Suddenly concerned with legality? That’s rich, considering the fake passport my men found in your apartment.” He takes a sip of his wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Did you really think you could run from Anatoly? That I would allow him to take your hand over mine.”

I stare at the untouched silverware beside my plate, counting the tines on the fork, anything to avoid looking at him. One, two, three, four. Four little spears of silver. Not enough to defend myself.

“I have class tomorrow,” I say, trying again. “I should go.”

“You don’t have class tomorrow.” His voice drops lower. “You don’t have anything except what I decide to give you.”

Under the table, his hand clamps down on my knee. Hard. His fingers dig into my flesh through my jeans, and I fight the urge to slap him away. The pressure increases until it hurts.

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” he growls, leaning closer.

I wrench my knee away, my calm façade cracking. “My father won’t like you touching me.”

The words fly out before I can stop them—a stupid, dangerous thing to say, yet fear makes me reckless. Vittorio’s face changes, a flash of something ugly before his expression smooths back into pleasant menace.

“Does your father know you have a boyfriend?” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small pistol, placing it carefully on the table between us. The metal gleams dully under the chandelier light. “That would be the boy from your school? Adrien Moreau, age twenty, film studies major?”

My blood turns to ice. He knows Adrien’s name. Which means Adrien is already in danger, just for standing next to me.

“You’re going to walk out of here quietly,” Vittorio says, his voice terrifyingly soft, “or people die because of you. Starting with your little boyfriend.”

A waiter passes by, and Vittorio slides the gun back into his jacket with practiced ease. No one notices. No one sees the threat or my terror. In this restaurant full of people, I’m completely alone.

“If this is about money—” I start, thinking of the cash I’ve saved. Maybe I can buy my way out of this.

“It’s not.” He cuts me off with a dismissive wave. “Though that helps.”

He signals for the waiter, who approaches with a professional smile. “Bring the check,” Vittorio says. “My date isn’t feeling well.”

The waiter nods and retreats. I’m running out of time.

“My father can’t force me to marry you,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It’s the twenty-first century. There are laws?—”

“Laws?” Vittorio smirks. “Do I look like I care about fucking laws or what your father has to say?”

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