Page 31 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

While I, what? Got sick, had panic attacks, went to the hospital, and napped.

I glanced back over my shoulder, making sure that giant of a man—with the dark brown eyes and the bag of bagels—wasn’t following me as I flew down the steps instead of trusting the elevator to get me to the street fast enough.

My heart was in my mouth as I finally burst out of the front doors.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, making me capable of doing something I hadn’t done in years. At least not willingly. I ran. All the way to the subway. Then to my apartment.

I burst through the doors and collapsed down onto my couch, trying to bring some air back into my burning lungs. And a single rational thought back into my head.

But there was no hope.

My heart was galloping. My vision was going all hazy around the edges. I was covered in sweat but shaking. And my breathing refused to slow down, no matter how long I sat.

I slid to the floor, curling my knees in to my chest, and wrapping my arms around my legs, knowing there was no reasoning my way through one of these panic attacks once they got into full-swing.

I just had to try to weather the storm.

Try to remind myself that I was going to be okay. Even if it felt like even my own body didn’t feel okay.

Eventually, though, there was no more adrenaline for my body to fuel itself with, and I was able to pull my tense, weak body up off the ground.

My wrist was screaming.

But I’d rushed out of Gavino’s place without grabbing my meds. And there was no way to get another prescription for pain medicine again so soon. So I was just going to have to take some aspirin and grin and bear it.

I grabbed myself a plastic food storage bag then made my way to my bathroom, peeling off my clothes, turning on the water, then carefully wrapping my cast in the bag before climbing in.

A shower always worked as a reset for me. Cleared my head. Chased all those post-panic-attack creepy-crawly sensations.

And, well, it felt good to get clean after a very tense thirty-six hours. Even if washing my hair proved to be a challenge.

Once I was toweled off, hair brushed, and in leggings and a roomy sweatshirt, I knew exactly what came next.

I had to leave.

He knew my name.

I wasn’t naive enough to think that just because I had a common name in a big city, that I was safe. I wasn’t. Not when Gavino wasn’t just some low-level criminal, but a ranking member of the mob. He surely had access to hackers, investigators, or whoever he might need to track me down.

Then what?

I mean, he hadn’t hurt me. He’d even pointed that out. He could have suffocated or strangled me in my sleep. There would have been nothing I could have done to stop him.

But he hadn’t done that.

I mean, he’d even given me tips on how to throw a punch. And insisted that I go to the hospital.

Looking back, that might have been less of a kindness and more of a way to get me to leave so he could shower, eat, and get some rest.

Still.

He could have hurt me, and didn’t.

Maybe I was overreacting.

Then again, from the research I’d done when I’d been tracking him down, Gavino was a capo. Which meant he was in charge of soldiers and associates, but he wasn’t the main shot-caller. That was the boss. The capo dei capi.

So if word got out that he’d been held hostage, if the boss wanted revenge for making Gavino and his organization look bad, he could absolutely make someone come after me.