Page 28 of Last Hand

I wriggle frantically, feeling the rough wood tear at my shirt, my skin. My hips catch on the frame, and for one horrible moment, I think I’m stuck—trapped halfway, the perfect target. I twist, bones grinding against the unyielding frame, and then suddenly I’m through, tumbling out into the night air.

I hit the ground hard, landing on scattered gravel in what must be a service alley behind the restaurant. Pain shoots through my shoulder and hip. I’m up in an instant, adrenaline masking the hurt.

Behind me, I hear the bathroom door bang open. “Gina!” Vittorio’s voice, furious now.

I don’t look back. I run, sprinting down the narrow alley between buildings, feet skidding on loose gravel. The night air burns in my lungs, cold and sharp. A stitch forms in my side almost immediately. I push through it, turning blindly at the first intersection, then the next, creating distance between me and the restaurant, between me and Vittorio.

The alleys form a maze, twisting between the backs of buildings—restaurants with their overpowering garbage smells, apartments with laundry hanging from windows, shops with their deliveries stacked in neat piles. I have no plan beyond running, no destination except to get away.

My only thought, pounding in time with my footsteps: I will not go back. I will not be owned. I will not.

Gravel crunches under my feet as I run, each step sending tiny stones skittering into the darkness. My breath comes in jagged gasps, scraping my throat raw. The maze of Parisian backstreets swallows me whole—narrow passages between buildings where the moonlight barely penetrates, where the air hangs thick with the stench of yesterday’s rain and today’s garbage. I have no idea where I’m going. Just away.

Please don’t let him find me. Please don’t let him find me. It’s a childish thing, this begging to a God I stopped believing in years ago, when I first understood what my father really was. It’s incredible how desperation has a way of bringing faith back from the dead.

I duck behind a dumpster overflowing with restaurant waste, the smell of rotting vegetables and discarded fish heads making my stomach heave. My legs burn, unused to running, I never felt that urge here where no one knew who my family was. My lungs feel like they’re lined with sandpaper.

A sound makes me freeze; voices, male, coming from the direction I’m heading. I peer around the corner of the dumpster and spot them: two men in dark suits, their silhouettesunmistakable even in the dim light. Vittorio’s men. They must have been watching the restaurant, waiting for exactly this scenario.

I back away, changing direction, taking the next turn blindly. Left, then right, then left again. The alleys grow narrower, the buildings pressing in on either side. The ground beneath my feet transitions from gravel to slick cobblestones.

And then I turn one corner too many and find myself staring at a wall. A dead end. Fifteen feet of solid stone looms above me, too high to climb, too smooth to find purchase. I spin around, ready to backtrack, only it’s too late.

The footsteps approach unhurriedly. The sound of a predator who knows his prey is cornered.

“Such a shame.” Vittorio’s voice floats through the darkness before I see him. “I was hoping not to have to do this.”

He steps into view, the dim light from a distant streetlamp casting his face in shadows. Two men flank him, the same ones I spotted earlier. They block the only exit.

I back up against the cold stone wall, feeling its rough surface scrape against my palms. My gaze darts frantically, searching for something, anything, a fire escape, a service door, a Goddamn miracle. There’s nothing.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” Vittorio asks, his voice almost gentle. “From your father? From… who you are?”

“I’m not who you think I am,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice.

He smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips. “You’re exactly what I think you are. A Pressutti. Your father’s daughter. My future wife.”

“Never.” The word rips from my throat, raw and defiant.

“Never is a very long time, Gina.” He takes another step closer. “And I’m not a man of patience.”

I see my chance, a slim gap between him and the wall. If I’m fast enough, if I catch him off guard, maybe I can slip past. It’s a desperate plan, and the only one I have.

I lunge forward, trying to bolt past him, putting all my remaining strength into a final sprint toward freedom.

I don’t make it three steps.

Vittorio’s arm snakes around my waist, yanking me backward with such force the air rushes from my lungs. His grip is iron, fingers digging into my flesh through my clothes. I scream, a sound of pure rage and fear that echoes off the narrow alley walls.

“Let me go!” I thrash against him, my elbow connecting with his ribs. He doesn’t even flinch.

In desperation, I twist in his grip and sink my teeth into the hand that’s restraining me. The taste of copper floods my mouth as my teeth break skin. Vittorio curses, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free.

Freedom is short-lived. He grabs my arm and throws me down, my knees hitting the cobblestones hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I peer up at him, at the blood welling from the bite on his hand, at the cold fury in his eyes.

“You touch me and my father will fucking kill you!”

“Your father won’t risk the shame,” he sneers, wiping his bleeding hand on a handkerchief pulled from his pocket. “No one wants a whore for a daughter.”

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