Page 133 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Giovanni stands, smoothing his sleeves.
"I had hoped you would let me feed you. No one wants a martyr who starves. But you are far too stubborn for my pity. I must make sure the family thinks I'm helping 'find' you." He laughs like he has made the most amusing joke, then leaves without another word.
For a moment, the silence is so complete it feels like the world has dropped out from under me.
My heartbeat is the only sound, thudding against the inside of my skull, pounding in time with the ache that blooms behind my left temple.
I close my eyes.
The taste of blood is still in my mouth, metallic and warm, settling behind my teeth like something final.
I'm not crying. Not yet.
But my breath comes short, shallow, and I feel the cold panic rushing up through my chest like a wave trying to swallow me whole.
I cannot stay here.
I cannot die in a forgotten room, my son alone, wondering why I left again.
Gabriel.
His name steadies something inside me.
The fear doesn't vanish, but it condenses.
Sharpens.
I look down at my wrists, bound to the wooden arms of the chair with coarse rope.
My legs are tied, too, ankles braced tight against the thick legs of the chair. I test the restraints just a little.
Just enough to know the knots are real.
But not perfect.
Giovanni never saw me as a threat.
That will be his mistake.
The soup bowl rests on the small table beside me, its surface still rippling slightly from where he dropped it with false gentleness.
The scent is cloying.
Broth and bitterness.
My stomach turns.
The edge of the table is just within reach if I shift my weight.
I close my eyes again. Count to three. Then I thrust my shoulder forward, putting everything into the motion.
The table tips.
The bowl slides, teeters, and then crashes to the floor with a sound like bone snapping.
Porcelain shards scatter across the floor.
Good.
