Page 21 of Cara
My fingers dig at his hand, desperation rising in my chest.
His chuckle is disbelieving. “You’re going to be a problem for me, aren’t you?”
A problem. I used to be his joy.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
My arm swings, an unusual reaction. When I hear the clap of my palm meeting his face, hard enough to make me wince, something shifts in his eyes. The cool threat escalates until his eyes are almost black.
He is suddenly someone I’ve never seen before.
He returns my insolence tenfold, knocking me off my feet. My eyes widen as I turn my face, seeing him coming. Screaming, I dive for the door. “Stop! Stop!”
Stop.
I wake with a scream, a blood-curdling scream that sends me upright.
My eyes are on my apartment.
Madrid.
You’re in Madrid.
Breathless, I absorb my surroundings, sensing the heaviness of the nightmare lifting as I return to reality.
Eighteen months.
You’ve been here eighteen months.
You aren’t in New York.
At this time of night, the unfurnished space is obscured by total darkness. My back molds to the freshly painted walls, my hands shaking against my knees.
Vito isn’t here.
He can’t touch you.
None of them can.
Too shaken to sleep, afraid I’ll return to that place—that time—I stand, bolting across the room. My laptop drones to life as I pull up a browser. My fingers type a name.
Xavier Marcello
I can’t hit enter.
It’s not fear of what I’ll find, although I feel that. It’s not because he wouldn’t want me to; I already know he wouldn’t. It’s because typing in his name will create a trail. A trail someone could find.
As badly as I need to see his face, I close the laptop, dropping into the chair.
After eighteen months, I thought this would have gotten better. This pain. This worry.
After glancing at the clock, I roam the room in a routine, changing into something warm. My eyes hone in on the gun resting on my pillow, but knowing where I'm going, I leave it there, only grabbing belongings that matter. My wallet. My travel papers. I throw open the door, descending the rusty iron steps from the second floor of the building. The café on the first floor is dark, but the owner—my landlord—is sweeping the terrace, preparing to open for the early morning rush.
“Cara, you’re up early.”
My Spanish is good, decent. Just enough to get through basic conversations. I jumble through a comment about the rain coming later while I pass by him. Luckily, Enzo never takes offense to my outlandish behavior. He hasn’t asked why I never go out, why I have three deadbolts on the door, why I never stop to exchange pleasantries… why I’m always alone.
