Page 137 of Valentino

"Then what the fuck are you doing?"

She waits until I look at her.

"We were raised in a world run by men who do what they want," she says. "They lie to us and call it love. Use us and call it opportunity. Trade us and call it business. They don't ask. They don't tell. Then when we find out, they tell us we should have seen it. It's not your fault, Amanda. You weren't supposed to know what he worked this hard to hide."

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I don't cry.

I can't. Not right now. Not with Valentino somewhere in this building.

I lower my hands.

"Where is he?" Francesca asks.

"Who?"

"Your man."

My chest pulls tight.

"I don't know." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "If he's still alive, he's somewhere in this place."

Francesca says nothing.

For once, the silence helps.

Then noise breaks down the hall.

Male voices. Shouting. More than one. Italian first, then something under it. English, maybe. I can't tell.

Boots hit the floor fast.

Something slams.

Francesca's head lifts.

"Get up."

I'm already moving. I crawl across the floor to her chair.

"Your wrists."

I get behind her. My hands shake so badly I can barely grip the tie. It cuts deep into her skin, her wrist purple below it and swollen. It's a zip tie. I can't remove it without something sharp.

"Francesca, I can't⁠—"

"Ankles first. Those are ropes."

I drop down. She's right. Her ankles are tied to the chair legs with rough brown rope. My fingers find a knot, and I claw at it.

Something crashes past the door. Close enough to shake the floor.

"Hurry," she says.

Her voice is sharp with urgency.

"I'm trying."