He who has a why to live, can bear almost any how.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

***

Without the gear on my back, driven on by imagining of a faucet dripping beautiful water, I shinny up the wall and poke my head through the window.

The room is empty. Its door is shut. I barely remember crossing the floor and rushing into the attached bathroom, before I dip my face under the faucet and open the valve all the way.

Water--cold, wet, life-giving water--splashes into my mouth, overflows over my cheeks between the gulps to splash my cleavage. There's a moment of perfect happiness if there ever was one! A visceral enjoyment of slacking my thirst overpowers every worry. It squeezes the world into a tiny glorious space where I just drink this clear, sweet liquid.

Too bad I have to return to reality from this cheerful place. My hand slips off the valve a few times before I jut up my chin and reduce the water-flow to a trickle.

Then I tilt my head upward to face the reflection in the mirror, bit back the exclamation of disgust, purse my lips and scrub away as much grime as I can.

Finally, I peel off the hoodie and the revolting dress to wash everything that itches to be washed.

Unfortunately, the hair will have to wait until I find someone capable of shearing the matted tangles without shaving the whole mess off.

For now, I wet my mane and squeeze it under the hood the best I can, out of the way. I wish I had a change of clothes here. I can't put that dress on again, but luckily my hoodie comes below my bum, to mid-thigh, so that's what I put on.

Wearing only a hoodie over naked--and squeaky-clean!--skin, I make my way to the door in bare feet. They make a squelching sound, so I stop every few steps to listen in. Everything is quiet. The pent-up breath escapes my chest when, for once, the door is not boogie-trapped or locked with a password from a pornographic classic.

Tip-toeing down the hall, and endlessly tugging the hoodie down to cover up my lady-parts, I push the doors, survey the rooms for any sign of personal possessions. I'd kill for a pair of sweatpants, damn it!

Alas, there is nothing to see. The upper floor is empty.

The eerie silence of the castle imbues me with a new confidence, but it spirals into disappointment as every room turns out to be a dud. The shots are still coming from the outside. I need to go to the ground floor, and quickly. If anything of mine is still in the castle, it would be there. And that's where they are living, so that's where I find something to change into.

On the ground floor, the darkening sky gapes through the gaps between the boards covering the windows. Soon, it'll be so dark that I won't be able to see anything unless I put the lights on. And I don't want to do that alerting everyone of where I am!

Basically, if I don't find what I'm here for in the next few minutes, I'll have to grab the car that matches Creepy's keys and risk the nearest police station. And come what may... And I don't even have a pair of panties on. I squirm, considering going back for the dress, but then, then, God takes pity on me.

By sheer dumb luck, I push a door at random and get into a room that looks like a makeshift office. My travel suitcase from the car, my second phone, my camera, my gear pack, my purse, my shoes—everything!—is piled in one corner. My stuff is turned out and thoroughly searched by the look of it, but I don't even care about this personal violation. It's my stuff!

With a squeal of delight, I pick through it in the light of the second phone's flashlight, to make sure my passport is there, and all my IDs.

My hands shake, I'm so happy to touch it! Moaning in wordless delight, almost as loudly as I did when Scali made love to me, I wriggle into panties, pants, bra, t-shirt, yoga pants, socks and shoes. Only with them on, I can appreciate how dehumanizing lacking these simple staples of modern life was. How low I had fallen to walk around a castle practically naked! And be glad that I can move freely.

After my happy reunion with my things is done, I survey the array of phones on the mahogany table. With all this tech I could summon the gendarmes, the Royal Navy and Doctor Who. But screw it! I have my passport, I have my car keys, I have my fucking pants on, so I'll stick to the plan. I'm making run for it.

However, next to all the tech, there is something that can help me out a huge time with it.

In their zeal to chase Scali, the excitable mafiosi left a portable lockbox unlocked. Like, the lid is not completely opened, but it's not completely sealed either. Can't be, right? My instincts take over to open it. A gasp escapes my lips.

The lockbox is neatly stacked with cash.

I blink to make sure I'm not imagining things. But no, it is what I think it is!

A mafia's lockbox full of money. Or maybe what looks like a huge pile of money to me, is a jar of small change for them to use as needed to run the operations from here. And, yes, maybe fear is the best lock, maybe their underlings would never take a single euro from Johnny without asking, no matter if it's locked away or not. They could be so afraid of him, they'd never take it. I'm afraid too, but I need money to flee, I need money to fix my face, I need money to hide.

And so many scary things have already happened to me, I don't have the will to walk away from the money.

Whipping sweat that dots my brow, I toss some of my suitcase's content out on the floor and fill it with the mafia money. I layer the neatly packed bundles of euros with my black yoga pants and sports bras. It's a weird experience, but not too weird.

A sudden cannonade of gunshots comes from really close by, right next to the castle. Caught by it in the midst of this boldfaced robbery, I basically hit the floor. I whimper and cover my head with my arms.

You greedy idiot! That's how you die.

With growing terror I listen in, as the gunshots and shouts come closer and closer, and the door bangs. The fighting has hit the hallway next to the office where I'm hiding.

The veneer of calm crumbles, as I press myself to the floor, willing myself to go invisible, shaking in my shoes, my only-just-now-reacquired shoes. I look at the door opening to see each participant of the drama as they run down the hall.

Johnny, runs first with the speed unexpected from a man of his bulk and years, but he's hardly an Olympic sprinter. His face is all red, his hairy gut jiggles in the opening of the shirt that came undone from running, and he pants like he's going to expire from just running.

Scali comes on his heels, limping.

Scali! I crawl to the door, press myself to the office wall and peek. I hope that their eyes are glued to one-another, rather than checking out the rooms for the signs of intrusion.

Johnny is still in the lead. Scali is gaining, but a skinny dark-skinned gangster erupts from some hiding place to intercept Scali. My heart drops into my stomach when I think that I could have opened the wrong door and came face to face with this guy.

He shoots.

The shot misses. It ricochets off the wall. It misses Scali again. Thank God!

The lousy shot aims again, but Scali grabs him by the ears and smashes him head-first into the wall, where the would-be gunslinger crumples to the floor.

The altercation takes like two seconds and barely slows down Scali's limping gait.

See, this is Scali, the real Scali, you idiot. This is what he does.

Matteo Scali, who visited my dreams for weeks, is a guy who kills men for getting into his way. The guy who cuts off dicks from people who pissed him off. He is exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Mom would have a heart-attack if she could see me, if she could hear my thoughts. She'd beg me to come back to my senses, she'd screech that Matteo is not for me... she would be right, of course.

The front door bangs again.

I draw back into the office, squatting with my back pressed against the wall, praying that the motion went unnoticed by the new arrival--the Viking Smurf.

Thankfully, he barrels past, in pursuit of Johnny and Scali. By the sound of his thumping footfalls, he's not breaking his stride for his knocked-down ally.

I think they all dash up the stairs to the second floor.

Were I heroic, I'd grab a chair and chase after the men, eager to scream and pounce ineffectually onto the Viking's back, hitting him with my impromptu weapon.

But I'm no hero.

I'm a petty trespasser—after this last week, I swear to God, I'm a retired petty trespasser, who shall never again stick her nose in where it doesn't belong—so I grab my purse, my camera and my precious suitcase, and dash outside as fast as my legs would carry me.

My car, all I want is my car, so I could drive the hell away from this terrible place and these horrible men.