I’m tired of the games. I’m a prisoner, and while the accommodations are nicer than the compound, it’s still me without my freedom.
I need to escape, to feel the warm summer breeze on my skin. Glancing out at the sun through the window doesn’t offer the same appeal.
Moreno stares at me. His eyes crinkle slightly. “Is there something else I can get for you? Any cravings?”
Dante’s second seems to care more about my well-being than the father of my child.
“Bring me Dante.”
He exhales a heavy sigh. “I’ll leave you with your food,” Moreno says, ignoring my request. He retreats from the bedroom, and I hear the door click and the lock snap into place.
* * *
After telling Moreno to bring me Dante, I’m not sure what I expect to happen. I perch myself on the ledge of the window, staring out into the backyard, the open expanse that stretches on as far as I can see.
I grab the butter knife from the tray and work the glue loose around the window. Maybe I can manage an escape.
I’m hard at work, chipping away at the sticky residue that clings to the window when Dante bolts into the room.
When Moreno enters without knocking, it’s calm and tranquil. Not Dante. He blows in like a storm.
My fingers drop the knife, and it clanks loudly as it tumbles to the floor while I shift quickly to hide what I’ve been doing. I suspect he already knows.
Is that why he chose now to come?
Are there cameras in my bedroom?
Or was it my request to Moreno for Dante to visit that brought him thundering inside my room?
My mouth is dry, parched. There’s a glass of water with my meal that sits untouched.
“Is it necessary that I feed you?” Dante asks. His face shows no hint of emotion, but it doesn’t match his exterior. His hands are bunched into fists at his sides.
Does he not want to come speak to me? Is it Moreno who forced his hand? That seems unlikely.
Dante doesn’t do anything that he doesn’t want. A benefit of being the boss.
“I’m not hungry,” I say and glance at the plate of food that’s now no doubt grown cold.
He steps farther into the room, closer toward me. He doesn’t comment about the knife that clanked to the floor. Instead, he bends down and picks it up, keeping it from me.
“What will you eat?” he asks.
“I told you. I’m not hungry.” Consider it a hunger strike. Well, that and morning sickness. The thought of food makes me queasy.
“No sweet tooth? Or maybe you crave a salty snack? Can I bring you a bag of potato chips? I’ll bring you anything you want.”
The nerve of him! “Do you really think a bag of chips makes up for the fact you’ve locked me in your house and stolen my freedom?”
“It’s not safe for you out there.” He points toward the window. “Do you know what I went through to bring you back here with me?”
I don’t like him being this close within my personal space. I need room to breathe. I skirt off of the ledge.
My feet are filled with nervous energy. Sitting isn’t an option.
“It couldn’t have been that difficult,” I say. “Your men forced me into their car and abducted me!” How dare he play the victim, like he isn’t the one entirely in control.
My stomach roils and I’m sure any moment I’m going to be sick again.