Chapter 3 - Vanishing in the Snow
The mansion was completely silent when I returned. Sophia had left, leaving the festive scents of roasted pine and orange simmering on the stovetop. The fire in the great room had burned down to embers, casting long, skeletal shadows across the vaulted ceiling.
I walked directly into the master bedroom. I didn't turn on the overhead lights. The faint blue glow from the snow outside poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I dragged my pre-packed hospital bag from the back of the walk-in closet. It was a simple black duffle I had prepared weeks ago: baby onesies, tiny knit beanies, nursing gowns, my medical charts, and a small pink blanket my late grandmother had crocheted before she passed. Roman had laughed when I packed it in November, calling me adorably paranoid. Now, that duffle bag was my entire future.
From the safe in the closet wall, I didn't touch the stacks of bundled cash Roman kept for operational emergencies. I didn't touch the velvet boxes of diamond necklaces and emerald earrings he had bought me after every missed anniversary. Taking his money would give him a legal tether. It would give his attorneys something to call "theft."
Instead, I took my passport, my social security card, my birth certificate, and the small savings account passbook that belonged solely to me—money inherited from my mother that Roman had never touched or cared to oversee. It wasn't millions, but it was enough. Enough for a modest life. Enough for autonomy.
I sat down at the vanity table. My hands shook as I reached for my left hand.
The engagement ring was a five-carat flawless diamond, flanked by tapered baguettes. It was magnificent, heavy, and cold. When Roman slipped it onto my finger four years ago in Venice, he had promised that as long as I wore it, no harm in this world would ever touch me.
He had forgotten that the sharpest blade is often the one held by the person sleeping beside you.
I slid the ring off my swollen finger. It took effort. It left a pale, red indentation on my skin. I carried it downstairs, through the dark corridors, into the great room where the twelve-foot balsam fir stood decorated with silver ribbons and handcrafted glass ornaments.
I placed the diamond ring directly on the tree skirt, nestled between two wrapped packages Roman’s associates had delivered earlier that week.
Next, I walked down the hall to the nursery.
The room had taken four months to finish. The walls were painted a soft, dusty rose. A white wooden crib sat in the center, flanked by sheer curtains and a velvet rocking chair where I had imagined Roman holding our daughter in the middle of the night. On the wall hung wooden letters spelling out the name we had agreed upon: Grace.
I walked into the room, left the door wide open, and didn't touch a thing. I wanted him to see it empty. I wanted him to walk into this house and feel the exact terrifying void he had created in my chest.
My cell phone sat on the kitchen counter. I picked it up, turned off the GPS location tracking, and placed it face down right beside Roman’s cold dinner plate. Let his security team try to track a ghost.
I walked out to the garage, bypassing the luxury sedans and sports cars that carried built-in transponders linked to Roman's central dispatch. In the far corner sat an old, beat-up Subaru Outback that had belonged to the estate’s former head groundskeeper; Roman’s head of security, Marcus, had purchased it for winter supply runs to avoid salting the undercarriages of the luxury fleet. The keys hung on a pegboard by the side exit.
The engine sputtered to life with a rough, metallic rumble. I pressed the garage door opener, backed the vehicle out into the blinding white storm, and didn't look back at the grand stone pillars of the Vascari fortress.
The guard at the gate was a young man named Tommy, new to the rotation. He stepped out of the heated guard shack, adjusting his tactical scarf against the biting wind, surprised to see the utility vehicle moving at nine o'clock on Christmas Eve.
I rolled down the window just an inch. "I'm running down to the 24-hour pharmacy in Barrington," I lied smoothly, my voice cold and steady. "Roman asked me to pick up a prescription before the storm closes Route 14. He said Dante is busy downtown."
Tommy hesitated. He had strict orders never to let Mrs. Vascari travel without an armed detail. But the mention of Roman’s authority, combined with the bitter freeze, made him second-guess his protocols.
"Should I call an escort vehicle, ma'am?"
"Do you want to wake Marcus and explain why you delayed Roman's errand on Christmas Eve?" I asked, raising an eyebrow with the icy composure I had learned from watching Roman operate for half a decade.
Tommy swallowed hard, tapped his radio, and keyed the gate open. "Drive safe, Mrs. Vascari. It's getting nasty out there."
May you like
"Merry Christmas, Tommy."
The heavy iron gates parted, groaning under the weight of accumulating ice. I hit the gas, the all-wheel drive gripping the snow-covered asphalt, and disappeared into the howling white wilderness.
