I bit my lip hard enough to keep me from making any stupid noises.
“It’s not like I have anywhere to go,” I said.
That made him smile. “Well. I’m glad you realized that.”
I pushed his hand away and went to move, but he grabbed my hips and pulled me back. I pushed at his chest but he held me there before grabbing my wrist and pinning me against the wall. I was breathing hard, staring at him, halfway between rage and desire.
“Get off me,” I said.
He hesitated, holding me tighter, then released me. I held my hands there for a moment before letting them fall back down.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “And don’t leave the house.”
“There’s nowhere for me to go, remember?”
He nodded. “Good. Don’t forget it.”
I stared at him and gestured at the door. “Well, go ahead. Leave, if that’s what you’re doing.”
He lingered another moment, and I could tell he wanted more from me. I don’t know if he wanted to kiss me, or pin me against the wall again, or if he wanted to yell at me. I think he wanted all three, and if I was being honest with myself, I wanted it all too.
But he turned and stalked away. He went to the front door, opened it, and hesitated. The rain was coming down hard. He looked back at me then shook his head and plunged outside, slamming the door behind him.
I stood alone in the house for a long moment. I heard his car start and drive off, but I could hardly believe it.
I was free.
I could do anything I wanted. I could run away, go outside, go anywhere in the house without him watching. For the first time since he took me, I could do anything.
I touched my shoulder where the bandage still covered my bullet wound then walked to the front door. I opened it and looked outside, just staring at the water cascading down the street toward the drains. I could step out there, splash in the puddles, run on the sidewalk.
Instead, I shut the door and turned away.
The stairs creaked as I climbed them. I held the smooth wood railing as I kept going up to the third floor, then to the back of the house where his room was tucked away. I lingered outside of the door then pulled it open and stood just inside the doorway.
His bed was king sized and took up most of the room. The sheets were gray and white. His nightstand was simple and wooden, mid-century modern in style with pointed legs and two drawers. He had a simple Timex clock with red-glowing numbers. There was a bureau that matched the nightstand and some black and white photographs of landscapes on the walls. I lingered there before stepping inside, the hardwood floor creaking under my weight.
I started with the nightstand. I rifled through it and found nothing important. There was a pack of cards, a bible, some condoms toward the back, some loose socks. He had a few watches, some cash in rolls of twenties, and a small handgun in the bottom drawer. I tried the other nightstand, but that was even more empty, just a few notepads and pens in the top drawer, and more loose socks in the bottom.
His bureau was even less interesting. Socks and underwear in the top drawer, shirts and gym shorts in the next. I went through it all, hoping to find something interesting, but came up empty.
I tried the closet last. It wasn’t particularly large, but he had his suits and shirts and jeans hanging up. There were shoes in boxes at the bottom, and a few more shoeboxes at the top. I pulled one down at random and took off the lid.
Old pictures overflowed the top. I put it down on the floor and sat cross legged in front of it. I went through the pictures and recognized him in more than a few. They were from when he was young, probably not even a teenager yet if I had to guess. There were other people, a tan man with a mustache that looked a little like Steven, probably his dad. An older woman, wrinkled face, hard dark brown eyes, puff of white hair, probably his grandmother. I found several pictures of Steven with younger boys, and one particular boy kept appearing over and over. I guessed that was Dante, but I wasn’t sure.
It was strange, seeing Steven looking so young. It was odd thinking about Steven as a person outside of the mafia. I wanted to keep thinking of him as a monster, as some self-centered killer that only cared about murdering the Irish mob as a way to make himself more money. But he was a young kid once, with parents and a grandmother. That kid grew up into the man he is now, and I wished I could’ve known him back then, at least so I could understand how he became what he is today.
I put the pictures away and went into his bathroom. It was neat and orderly. I opened the cabinet under his sink first and found toilet paper rolls, some cleaning supplies, and some extra soap and shampoo. I opened the medicine cabinet, pushed aside some Tylenol bottles, a razor, some shaving cream, and sucked in a little gasp.
Sitting behind some old band aids was my phone.
“Jackpot,” I said, grabbing it and slamming the medicine cabinet. I knocked the toilet seat down with a loud bang and a clatter then sat on top of it and pressed the power button.
It booted up. I nearly cried as the Apple logo appeared and the phone turned on. I unlocked it and an avalanche of missed calls, texts, and emails began to
