It takes me a moment to process, and then I run.
What did he say?
Second room to the left.
I make it to the door, rip it open, lock it behind me, and slide to the floor with my back against the door.
I pull my legs close and hide my head in my arms on them. This is a nightmare. I have to wake up. All of this must be a really bad dream.
I start rocking myself.
My fingers get cold, and my body shudders.
This can’t be happening.
Recite what you learned about fear,I tell myself.
Fear gets worse when suppressed.
Invite the fear.
Fear can’t kill you.
My neck burns in pain. Whenever I get a panic attack, my neck feels like someone is stabbing it with a knife.
“It’s not real,” I tell myself in a whisper. “The fear is not real. You survived the flight. You survived that dungeon. You survived the pigeons. You will survive everything else.”
I draw my head back up and my shoulders back. I stand up.
You survived the pigeons.
This will be my new mantra.
I walk over to the sink, and only then do I realise in what a bathroom I am. Classic Sicilian shapes and colours meeting modern elements—it’s the bathroom my father had in his portfolio.
I splash cold water on my face and dry it with a towel. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see my father much in me. I have mymother’s hair and body, but then—my eyes. My nose. My way of speaking and gesturing—It’s my father’s.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “What do we do when backed against a wall? We move forward. We are staying positive. Everything happens for a reason.”
And so I do.
I walk out of the bathroom. One of his men is waiting silently for me, with no expression. He follows me back to where Giuseppe is waiting, the exact spot where I left.
“Why now?” I ask him when I return.
“Why now what?” he asks.
“You could’ve brought me here years ago. Why now?”
One corner of his mouth tugs up.
“Let’s just say the timeline has moved up,” he says.
“The timeline,” I repeat. “What is it?”
“The cancer spread,” he says without looking at me.
“All the money, and yet, you can’t buy life,” I say.