I stop for a second, running through the various rooms I remember. “The office,” I say finally. “Put them in my old office. The one with no windows.”
And, more importantly, no obvious escape.
5
Willow
You can hate someone so much you create a reflection of them to fixate on. A phantom that takes on a life of its own, dwelling in your head. It mimics the source of the rage, sometimes so perfectly that you confuse the two—until you start to believe that you can predict the actual person. Their every action. Their every move.
You learn them inside out, convinced they’ll never be able to hurt you again.
The fantasy merely lulls you into a false sense of security, though. Because the moment you finally meet the real being again in person... Only then do you realize just how unprepared you really are.
Donatello in the flesh is a different animal than who I’ve spent seven years picturing him as. He ambles toward the nearest building, dressed in a rumpled, bloodstained suit, unsteady on his feet. One good push seems liable to knock him down for good, and yet it’s unquestionable the hold he has on those around him who quickly fall into line.
And it’s laughable just how wrong my memories have portrayed him—confident, like a cartoon villain, evil, and callous. Someone easily shamed by his past, an opponent I could undoubtedly defeat.
All I had to do was face him once and for all.
The real man, however?
He’s broken. Exhausted, disheveled, and battered. With nothing left to lose, he’s an even more dangerous foe than the figure who abandoned me all those years ago. It’s impossible to confront an opponent who can’t even look at you.
I have Mischa Stepanov’s daughter as leverage...
As he growled those words, his voice conveyed malice that terrifies me if I let myself dwell on it. It was the same tone someone might use when referring to an object. A toy. Someone not even worthy of the attention an enemy would command. Just a pawn.
Though should I be so surprised?
He never saw me as anything else.
“Get them inside,” the gruff baritone draws my attention back to him. Head held high, he shoulders open a metal door and enters the building, clearly expecting everyone to follow. Which they do, almost in sync like some eerie, physical concerto.
My first instinct is to resist and do the only smart thing I can in this instance—run. Impatient, my feet twitch against the muddied earth as I scan the nearest line of trees, a few yards away.
I could make it…
But after that? I don’t even know which direction I’d head in. We could be miles from the city, let alone my family’s manor. Without proper clothing, or a weapon, it could be more dangerous to wander alone. Though, for all I know, Mischa could already be on his way…
“Keep moving,” one of the men nearby warns as if reading my mind. He’s tall, though I could probably outrun him. Gray eyes enhance his cold expression, however, and with his gun trained on the ground, he’s intimidating enough.
Would he shoot an unarmed woman? I can’t tell.
Warily, I turn back to the building, weighing the decision to bolt even as I take a step toward it. I shouldn’t stay. Every ounce of common sense in me tells me that if I enter beyond those walls, I may never leave.
But my life isn’t the only one in danger. A pale figure catches the corner of my eye, putting everything painfully into perspective.
The little girl huddles in the rain, shivering in a white nightgown, her bare feet caked in mud. Among these towering men, she looks even smaller, and a sense of protectiveness finally spurs me into action.
Rather than head for the trees, I inch closer to her and away from any route of escape. Her hand finds mine, and I grip it tight in return. I can’t suppress the panic that rises in my chest as the other guards fall into step behind us both. They’re silent, watching on with the intensity of dogs herding wayward sheep.
Or wolves.
Staring past them all, I find my attention resolutely drawn back to the figure in the lead. Framed in the doorway, bathed in the glow of fluorescent lighting, he moves like a man apart from the rest of the world, alone on an island unto himself. The slow, deliberate pace of his steps stirs a painful memory.
I used to be so awed by the rare moments when he revealed this side of himself—the leader. The figure my biological father and others deferred to as “boss.” Typically, I only saw the playful Donatello who hardly ever raised his voice. One instance, though, sticks out, a time when his subordinate intruded on our game of tag.
My silly Donatello transformed before my eyes, losing the charming grin I knew in favor of a cold, calculating expression. His eyes seemed to darken, revealing a chilling intensity that could reduce the strongest foes to their knees.
In the years since, I used to placate myself with the idea that his wrath couldn’t affect me anymore. I could face that piercing stare and never flinch.
I was wrong. His stare wasn’t the worst aspect of him to contend with. It’s this—watching him walk away, unable to make a sound. Do a thing. Hit him. Fight him. Scream.
It’s the second time I’ve been faced with his retreating back, and my thoughts feel no different than they had years ago. Childish.
The reason? It’s even more pathetic. I’ve been silent my whole life, but no one has ever made me feel invisible. Ignored.
Insignificant.
Focus! I bite my lower lip until I taste copper, desperate to adhere to the mantra Mischa taught me. Escape. Nothing more.
I replay his words over and over, but it’s as if the child in me is screaming in a way I never could out loud, demanding to be seen. Heard. Acknowledged.
By him.
I dig my nails into my palm in a desperate attempt to stay calm. Regardless, rage infects my entire body until I’m shaking, almost too badly to do the one thing I should in this situation—pay attention.
Beyond Donatello expands a sprawling two-story building with blurred windows, some cracked, and gray metal siding rusted in places. It looks industrial—not a building someone might live in. A warehouse?
Two metal doors guard the entrance, opening onto a wide lobby painted gray with utilitarian tile flooring and fluorescent lights above. The windows are large, but too high up to reach unassisted, and at a glance, no other doors seem to lead outside. Still, I scan every inch of the interior, making a mental map as I go.
Up ahead, two hallways branch off the main space, presumably heading deeper into the building proper. Donatello goes left, but one of the men meets my gaze and inclines his head, indicating the opposite direction.
My fingers throb, crushed by the grip of the little girl. I can’t even look at her, but to her credit, she’s still standing, smothering her whimpers. When I move, she falls into step beside me as I scour the hallway for anything that could assist during an escape.
The further down the corridor we travel, the more I feel a sense of déjà vu. I think I’ve been here before, maybe as a child. Something about the water-stained ceiling above triggers a memory. Sitting in a corner, counting the square tiles over and over to pass the time…
“This way.” This dark-haired man stands further down the hall beside an open doorway. “You’ll stay in here.”