Page 76 of Tortured Hearts
BECCA
Exhausted, I stop pacing for the first time in hours and stare at the card in my hand. The one Gianni tucked into my dress.The ace of spades.I knew what it was even before looking at it. I shiver, but it’s not from the cold. There’s something ominous in the air tonight—an icy warning licking my skin like the tempting tongue of the Devil himself.
My finger trembles as I trail it across the watch on my wrist. With every tick of the second hand, it feels heavier, a weight confined to these walls and me along with it. But there’s also something in that burden that begs to be freed, a lifetime of darkness yearning for a breath.
My wrist shakes, and the final seconds wither away.
Three.
Two.
One.
Midnight.
Heart pounding, I tear across the basement toward the door, holding the key to my freedom in my hand. The one Gianni taped to the inside of the playing card, a move as ingenious as it is terrifying. The analytical part of me can’t help but wonder if this is a trap—that the minute I unlock that door, I’ll stare down the barrel of a gun. But with time slipping through my fingers, I have no choice but to ignore my head and lead with my heart.
With a deep breath, I insert the key into the lock and turn it until it clicks. Opening the door, I listen for the smallest sound, only to be greeted by silence. The hallway is so dark and cold I almost step back into captivity. But the psychiatrist in me knows it’s a trick of the mind, fear weighing the risk of the unknown.
I can do this.
Cautiously, I listen for the guard, but there’s nothing. Then, a surge of adrenaline erupts, and I run, each step faster than the last until my foot slips, sending me crashing to the floor. Biting back a scream, I fling my arms in front of me, my hands taking the brunt of my fall.
Right next to a body.
For a moment, I can’t move. My chest squeezes, and my pulse roars in my ears. But inside all the chaos, I hear the faint tick of my watch’s second hand.
Tick.Run.
Tock.Live.
“The second this hits midnight, unlock the door, and run like hell. Don’t look back, Becca…no matter what.”
Holding tightly to Gianni’s words, I crawl up a steep flight of stairs and fling a second door open. Fear manifests footsteps behind me as I turn right, but I force myself to keep going. Digging my nails into my palms, I rundown the hallway toward the door he mentioned. The closer it gets, the tighter my chest constricts. My freedom is right there, calling to me from the other side like a forbidden siren. A few more steps and all this will be over.
My breathing picks up.
My heart pounds.
My pace doubles.
I’m going to make it.
I reach for the door handle … and then I hear them.
Voices. Shouting. Gunfire.
Him.
It’s as if my feet are no longer mine. They turn in the opposite direction of freedom and carry me up two flights of stairs toward a shadowy office at the end of the hall. Panic screams for me to run through the open door, but something holds me rooted in place.
Intuition? Fear? Acute self-preservation?
I have no idea. All I know is I’m operating on autopilot.
For the first time, I’m thankful to have lost my shoes during my involuntary cross-state transit. I inch closer, silently searching for Gianni and straining to make out words. Then, I hear an unfamiliar, commanding voice that chills me to the bone.
“...You’ve forsaken the Five Families for personal gain, Marchesi. You no longer have a place among us.Ciò che il sangue lega, solo la morte spezza.”
