Tiptoeing through the space, I open random doors until I find my gold mine. His office. A simple wooden desk, black leather chair, and several diagrams of sharks hanging on the walls. Bookshelves line the wall behind his desk, full of textbooks that are most likely for smart people.
Adrenaline is racing through my system as I approach the desk and start rifling through the drawers. Nothing of value in any of them—until I tug on the bottom one, finding it locked.
What I need is definitely in there. There’s a small bobby pin hooked around the string of my bathing suit top. I always have one there. Always.
Slipping it off, I straighten it out and insert it into the lock. I’ve gotten pretty good at this, so within a minute, I’m carefully sliding the drawer open.
Pausing intermittently to listen for sounds, I dig through the contents, my heart spiking when I find a card that says Repubblica Italiana written across the top, with a bunch of numbers and letters below. I slip my phone from my back pocket and do a quick Google search, matching it to what’s called a tessera sanitaria. I’m not sure how to interpret what it says, but I can make out his first and last name, birthdate, and place of birth. I’m almost positive it’s the equivalent of a social security card in America and precisely what I need.
I also uncover an official document naming Enzo as the owner of a corporation labeled V.O.R.S., along with a business address.
Guilt tugs at my heartstrings as I quickly snap photos of them, close the drawer, and sidle out of the room.
God, I hope he thinks he just forgot to lock it, but I know better, which is why I will do everything in my power to never see Enzo Vitale again.
The loud banging on a door from somewhere nearby has my heart nearly bursting from my chest. I’m in the midst of bleaching my roots, so I toss the brush into the bowl and grab for my gun lying in the sink, adrenaline causing my vision to sharpen.
Breath short, I stare out past the entryway to the bathroom and at the door to my hotel room straight ahead, waiting for someone to bust through and take me away in handcuffs. Time ticks by, only nothing happens, yet there's no calming the thundering in my chest.
Inhaling deeply, I face the mirror, averting my eyes as I set the gun back into the sink.
My very illegal gun, but I couldn’t resist. In the U.S., I had bought one from some shady dude for protection, but I had to leave it behind in order to travel. Here, gun laws are extremely strict, and obtaining one is nearly impossible in my predicament.
I had been walking past a shooting range when I got the stupid idea. A man had just finished up and put his handgun into a padlocked case in the trunk of his car and his ammo in a second locked case next to it. I hid behind a tree on the sidewalk while he ran back into the building, muttering to himself about having to pee. He didn’t even bother locking his car, too distracted by nature’s call.
I didn’t think at that moment, I just acted. I tiptoed to his car, opened the trunk, and stole both cases. Thankfully, my hotel was only a few blocks away, but my heart was nearly beating out of my chest the entire way back.
After, I was forced to find a hardware store to break into the damn things, though once I had the weapon in my hands, I felt like I could breathe again.
Blowing out a slow breath, I grab my brush from the bowl, then resume lathering the chemicals onto my roots, hands shaking. My natural brown has been coming through, and about once every couple of months, I make it my life’s mission to expunge it from existence.
I hate this shit, but I think my abused scalp is used to it by now.
When I'm finished, I toss the brush and the now empty bowl into the trash. The hotel room I’m staying in reeks of the bleach, but it also stinks of other things that are probably better suited in a lab.
Then, I pick up my burning cigarette that's been resting in an ashtray on top of the toilet and inhale, still avoiding my reflection.
During the twenty minutes it takes for the chemicals to do their magic, I go through another cigarette and swallow down a quarter of a bottle of vodka. I really shouldn't be drinking, but a deep impenetrable sadness has a tight hold on me, and alcohol is the only thing that drowns it.
Then, I strip off my clothes and get in the cruddy shower to wash out the bleach. My body feels sluggish and heavy as I rinse, and I can't tell if it's from the vodka or because life feels so fucking abysmal.
Halfway through, the alcohol hits and my surroundings begin to swirl around me. It feels like I got trapped in a rocket and it's blasting off.
“Fuck,” I mutter, slapping my hand on the wall in an attempt to stabilize myself.