Page 25 of Last Hand

I step out of the lecture hall into the crisp Paris evening, my boots crunching on gravel as Adrien falls into step beside me. The campus lights flicker on one by one, casting long shadows across the courtyard. I’m babbling about the professor’s ridiculous toupee when I spot it—a sleek black car idling at the curb. My words die in my throat, and my feet halt against the pavement. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to bolt, because I know exactly who stands leaning against that car.

“You okay?” Adrien nudges my shoulder, his French accent wrapping around the English words. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I almost laugh. A ghost would be preferable to what I’m actually seeing.

“I’m fine,” I lie, tightening my grip on my bag where my escape fund is hidden, forty thousand euros I’ve been squirreling away for months. Two more weeks and I’d have been gone. Vanished. New name, new life. Just me and Adrian.

So why is he here?

Vittorio Pressutti leans against the car like he’s posing for some Italian fashion magazine, all tailored suit and sharp angles. At twenty-five, he’s old enough to know better than to be lurking outside an almost eighteen-year-old’s school, yet men like him don’t care about things like social norms or, you know, basic human decency.

My stomach knots. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.

“Come, we’ll go this way,” Adrien says, pointing in the opposite direction. He follows my gaze to Vittorio. “Friend of yours?”

I grab his arm, my fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. “Keep walking. Don’t say anything.”

It’s too late. Vittorio’s seen us. He pushes off the car with casual grace and starts toward us, moving with the confidence of a man who’s never had to fear anything in his life.

“Gina.” My name in his mouth sounds like an order. “There you are, I was wondering when your class got off. I made dinner reservations for us.”

I force myself to breathe. In. Out. The chill air burns my lungs. “Maybe another time. It’s a school night.”

As if I’m some normal teenager worried about homework and curfews. As if he’s just some guy asking me out. We turn when his hand locks onto my arm, and I’m spun back around to face him.

His eyes—dark and calculating—slide to Adrien, sizing him up like he’s appraising livestock.

“Who’s he?” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice that makes my skin crawl.

“Friend from class,” I say, the words tumbling out too quickly. “We were just heading to the library to study.”

Adrien shifts beside me, confused but smart enough to stay quiet. I can feel him watching my face, trying to piece together what’s happening.

Vittorio smiles. “Your father sends his regards.”

The mention of my father makes my throat tighten. I haven’t spoken to him in three months, not since I convinced him to let me finish school here before he married me off, ever since I’ve been planning.

“I’m sure he does,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest.

“He agreed I could have one last chance to win you over.” Vittorio steps closer, close enough I can smell his cologne, something expensive and suffocating. “So this is my last effort to convince you.”

Translation: My father decided selling me off to the highest bidder wasn’t working, and wants me home, so now they’re trying a different tactic. Though I thought my hand was already spoken for, so why is Vittorio allowed one last attempt to win me over? What has happened back home for this turn of events? Only my father knows my whereabouts; Vittorio wouldn’t be able to find me unless my father sent him.

I think about the money hidden in my apartment under the floorboards. The apartment I won’t be able to return to now. The escape plan that’s crumbling before my eyes if I don’t find a way out of this.

“I have class early tomorrow,” I say, as if that matters, as if I have any power here.

Vittorio’s smile widens. “I’ll have you back at a reasonable hour.”

Adrien clears his throat. “Gina, we should?—”

“It’s fine,” I cut him off before he can say something that’ll get him hurt. Men like Vittorio don’t leave witnesses. “I should catch up with my... friend.” The word tastes like ash.

Adrien’s face falls. I can see the questions forming, the concern in his eyes. We’ve been dating for a year now, he’s sweet. But if my father finds out about him, he’ll be dead in a ditch by morning. Adrian is normal. Patient, and everything I wanted in this new life I was trying to build.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

No, I want to scream. I’m not sure. I want to run. I want you to grab my hand, and we’ll sprint until our lungs burn and our legs give out. I nod instead, knowing it would get him killed.

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