Page 82 of The Betrayal

"Not maybe. Certainly. I've known Elio Marchetti since we were children. He doesn't lose things. He doesn't let go." She takes a curve fast enough that I brace against the door. "But at least you'll be someone else's problem for a while. There's always a chance he'll change his mind about you."

I could tell her about the compound. About what happened in there, what her arrangement cost me, the concrete, the guards, the stale bread and the hands on my body. I could tell her that the woman sitting next to her is different now. Stronger. More determined.

I don't. Because I am learning, slowly and painfully, that the women who survive in this world are the ones who know when to keep their weapons holstered.

The coastal road winds east toward the water, the Mediterranean appearing in glimpses between the hills, black and silver under a sky that's starting to think about getting lighter but hasn't committed yet. My hand rests in my lap, fingers twitching to move higher, cover my stomach. I don't.

The port at Termini Imerese is small. Working. The kind of place that smells like diesel and fish guts, which doesn't help my nausea. Gabriella pulls up at the edge of a gravel lot, kills the headlights, and nods toward the dock.

A fishing vessel sits low in the water at the far end. Running lights on. Engine already humming.

"The captain's name is Marco. He doesn't ask questions. He'll take you to Salerno." Gabriella stares straight ahead through the windshield, both hands on the wheel, knuckles white. She hasn't looked at me once since I got in. "From there, you're a ghost. My ghost. A ghost who never called me, never sat in my car, and never existed in any version of tonight that I will ever remember."

"Understood."

"Then get out of my car."

I huff a laugh, taking the bag from the back seat and open the door. The salt air rushes in, carrying the sound of water against the hull and the low idle of the engine waiting to take me somewhere that isn't here. My feet hit the gravel, and I close the door without looking back.

The dock stretches ahead of me, weathered wood planks slick with spray, a single light at the far end throwing a yellow circle onto the water. The fishing vessel sits in it, rocking gently. Small. Functional. Nothing beautiful about it, nothing elegant, nothing that belongs to anyone I love.

My boots make hollow sounds on the wood. One step. Another.

My hand goes to my stomach.

I keep walking.