Page 12 of Marrying the Mobster
To call it a ‘backyard’ seems like an insult. Carved through the landscaped grass is a pool with the bluest water I’ve ever seen away from the ocean. Chairs and umbrellas are arranged around it, and a few pathways lead to other parts of the oasis—a pergola covering a table and chairs, an outdoor kitchen complete with grill and smoker, a bar where I can imagine someone making drinks during a party, a bathhouse. The whole thing is surrounded by fencing, but from this height I see clear, open land. It eventually gives way to the country club golf course, which takes up most of the center of the island. I can’t see any neighboring houses from here, but I know they’re out there. This neighborhood is arranged around the golf course in a circular pattern, which means there are several houses to the right and left of me.
All the residents of this island aren’t mobsters and hardened criminals. I only know this because when a celebrity, politician, or rich heiress builds or buys a house on Indian Creek it gets publicized in the news. If I find my way to one of the neighbors, maybe I can convince someone to get me off this island. If nothing else, I can sneak onto someone’s boat at the dock. One of them has to be headed to the mainland at some point.
Making a run for it when there are so many unknown variables at play is risky. But I refuse to sit here and wait for death. If I don’t at least try to escape, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life—however short it promises to be.
My room is on the third floor, but there’s what I assume to be a covered patio right below it. The patio covering is probably about twelve feet below me. The thought of breaking a limb or bashing my head open makes me wince, but it’s just another risk I’ll have to take. The only other way out of this room is the door, and I know less about what to expect on the other side than I do about what’s outside the window.
I wait until Antonella delivers my lunch and my daytime guard locks the door behind her. Ignoring the tray, I then race to the bed and start tearing the comforter and sheets off it.
“Bless you, Mariana,” I whisper, retrieving the tiny scissors from the manicure kit she gave me.
Kneeling on the floor, I cut and tear at the sheets, then tie my fabric together to make a rope. Glancing periodically through the window, I notice that beyond the fence, two men patrol from opposite directions. Each are dressed in black and wearing sunglasses, armed with frightening-looking rifle. They pause to chat for a minute before continuing on and disappearing from sight. After ripping down the curtains—because I’m certain my sheets tied together aren’t long enough—I stand at the window and wait for them to reappear, counting the seconds. They must be on a patrol of the entire perimeter because it takes them about five minutes to come back, meeting in the middle just like before.
Two guards, a five-minute opening to climb from the window while they’re out of sight, then another five to get over the fence before they come around again. From there, I’ll have to run hard and fast. No looking back.
Clenching my teeth so hard my jaw aches, I go to work on the curtains. By the time I have them shredded and added to my tether, the guards have come around twice more. I would probably work a lot faster if I didn’t flinch at every noise, prepared to hide my little project in case someone comes barreling through the door.
I tie my rope as tight as I can around one of the bedposts, tugging and leaning and dropping to the floor to test it with my weight. The furniture in this room is old but well-preserved—the kind of thing myabuelawould say doesn’t get made anymore. It’ll hold my weight just fine.
From there it’s just a waiting game. I slide the window open, my eyes fixed on the spot where the patrol guards meet. Every muscle in my body tenses as they pause to talk, just like they have every other time. Only now, it feels like they’re taking forever to move on and I’m practically bouncing on my toes with impatience.
Finally, they disappear and I seize my opening.
Hurling the blanket-rope out the window, I throw my legs over the side, then turn and shimmy my way down while holding on for dear life. My arms ache, but if yoga has done anything, it’s trained me to support my own body weight. I clamp my knees around the blankets and inch my way downward, gritting my teeth as the breeze makes me sway from side to side. I move faster once my feet hit the top of the patio covering, sitting on my butt and inching toward the edge. The backyard looks deserted, but I can’t be sure if the patio has glass doors that will allow people inside the house to see me. Once I hit the ground, I need to be ready to run.
I dangle about ten feet from the ground, getting a full view of the patio. There’s furniture scattered around a fire pit, and just as I suspected, a pair of enormous French doors and set of panoramic windows allow me to see inside. An open concept makes up the kitchen and a spacious great room, but surprisingly no one seems to be moving around in there.
Letting go, I remember not to lock my knees, going into a crouch and then falling onto my side. Once on my feet I move slowly away from the patio, scanning my periphery for any approaching threats. I can’t believe I haven’t been discovered or stopped by now. For a mafia boss’s house, this place is surprisingly unsecured.
Hope welling in my chest, I’m about to take off at a run when I nearly collide with another person coming from the pool area. Freezing in my tracks, I feel like I’m choking on my tongue as I come face to face with the woman from Diego’s phone screen.
She’s even prettier in person, short and petite with a waifish figure—which is flaunted by a stylish hot pink bikini and matching sunglasses. Her dark hair is wet and clinging to her neck and jaw. A pair of dark eyebrows wing upward as she lowers her frames.
“Holy shit! Did you just climb from that third-story window?”
When I only stand there, stunned and open-mouthed, she laughs.
“That’s hardcore. You must be Elena. Jovan told me all about you.”
“Please,” I whisper, fear making me tremble. “I have to get out of here. Help me.”
She offers a sympathetic look and glances into the house. “No can do, honey. I’m sorry, but … if you happen to climb that fence, I won’t stop you. If anyone asks, I haven’t seen you.”
It’s more kindness than I expected from anyone in this house. “Thank you.”
“You better hurry before the guards come back around,” she says. “They just passed a few seconds ago.”
I was so busy worrying about the mysterious woman that I completely forgot to watch for the guards. With no one else around to stop me, I take off for the fence, skirting the pool and picking up the pace once my bare feet touch grass.
I make my way to the corner where the side fencing meets the back and crouch down, gulping in deep breaths. Certain the guards are still making their circle of the house, I see that my savior has stretched out on one of the loungers next to the pool. It’s now or never.
I start to climb, not caring about how the wood hurts my fingers, or the splinter that slips into my palm. I’m so close to being free; nothing will hurt badly enough to stop me from putting Diego Pérez, his mafia, and my prison room, behind me.
The second I come down on the other side of the fence, male voices ring through the air in Spanish. They sound far off, but I react as if they’re breathing down my neck and take off at a run.
No, no, no!
I knew it was too good to be true. I’ve been spotted and now my chances of getting away have been cut in half. I won’t stop unless someone apprehends me or kills me. Running faster than I ever have in my life, I wait for a bullet that never comes, a death sentence that will put an end to all of this. I can see where the property line ends in a brick wall, and on the other side of it is the golf course. It’s humongous, and I’ll still have a long way to run to reach the club itself, but being out in the open might save my life. Diego’s men won’t shoot me with witnesses around.
