I hadn’t intended to escape from the cell. I was willing to put my fate in Sebastian’s hands, one way or another.
But now I can’t stop the fear gnawing at me.
Sebastian is about to go on a bloody rampage, seeking his revenge. I can’t blame him for that—he deserves retribution.
But I can’t just sit by waiting to see who will live and who will die.
At the very least, I could find my brother. I could beg Adrian to get away from my father. Maybe if Sebastian kills Papa and Rodion and the rest of the bratoks, he’ll be satisfied. After all, Adrian didn’t shoot anyone Sebastian loved.
I know my brother regrets what he did. I saw the hesitation in his eyes as he raised his gun to Sebastian’s head. It’s why he avoided me in the weeks before the wedding. He didn’t like the plan. He didn’t really want to be a part of it, I’m sure of that.
I think he would leave now, knowing that my father is doomed.
Or at least, I hope that’s what will happen.
I can’t even entertain the possibility that it might be Sebastian who falls by my father’s hand.
So as soon as Sebastian leaves my cell again, I start looking for a way to escape.
My options are limited.
I’ve been unshackled from the wall. But there’s no windows to climb out, and no possibility of tunneling through the walls or floor. I’m deep under the Gallo house, in a room made of solid cement.
The door seems to be my only option. It’s made of steel. When it unlocks, I can hear the thud and clunk of a heavy magnetic lock.
Sebastian is careful when he comes in and out. Greta less so.
I have no intention of attacking her—she’s been much too kind to me to do that, not to mention the fact that it would enrage Sebastian. But it’s possible I could use her indifference to my advantage.
The next time Greta brings me food, I take a long time eating the chicken and risotto she’s so expertly prepared.
“Don’t you like it?” Greta asks.
“I do,” I say. “I’m just getting full. Do you mind if I keep it to eat a little later while I’m reading?”
“Of course,” Greta says, standing up and dusting off her hands. My mattress is set directly on the floor, and the floor seems to have a perpetual powder of concrete dust, despite the fact that I’m sure the industrious Greta has swept it.
She leaves me alone to read.
I have no intention of picking up a book. As soon as she’s gone, I take the dishes off my tray and turn it over.
Sure enough, I find a large, rectangular sticker adhered to the bottom of the tray, with the name of the brand and place of manufacture printed on it. Very, very carefully I start to pick it off. It’s difficult because the glue is strong, and I don’t want to tear the sticker. But millimeter by millimeter, I’m able to pry it off the tray.
Once I’ve gotten the sticker free, I hide it under my pillow.
I don’t know for sure if I’m going to use it, or if it will even work.
But I have the option now.
