Chapter 43: The Escape

Santos slipped into his clothes with quick efficiency, while I darted into the walk-in wardrobe, the rush of triumph humming through my veins like electricity. I snatched a black silk shirt, sliding it over my battered frame and fastening the buttons, then cinched a tie around my waist to bind it snug. The fabric whispered against my skin, smooth and opulent, a stark contrast to the grime of my existence. Display cases gleamed with jewelry and luxury watches; I crammed handfuls into a sleek designer sports bag, my heart pounding with the thrill of plunder.

Emerging with the bag slung over my shoulder, I found Santos geared up, hefting his own pack. He unzipped it to reveal stacks of cash, bricks of drugs, boxes of ammo, and a pair of pistols nestled inside. I flashed mine, and he let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm amid the carnage.

We hauled Diego’s corpse onto the bed, draping the heavy blanket over him until he resembled nothing more than a man dozing off after indulgence.

‘How do we slip out of here?’ I asked, glancing at the door. ‘There are guards outside.’

‘I’ve got a plan, but you have to trust me completely.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘Alright, strip down.’ His command hung in the air. Protest bubbled up, but I swallowed it, peeling off the shirt and tie, folding them into his bag for safekeeping. He guided me to the tiger rug, where Diego’s blood was slowly congealing. ‘Roll in it,’ he instructed. I lowered myself, the cooling slickness coating my back, sides, and legs as I twisted through it. He smeared more across my face, pressing it into my cheeks and forehead until it crusted. Then he positioned me to sit, urging me to grind it into my inner thighs, the metallic reek filling my nostrils. In the mirror, I looked ravaged, trails suggesting I’d hemorrhaged from my most intimate wounds. The deception clicked into place.

‘Now go limp. Shut your eyes. Breathe shallow, like you’re barely hanging on—play dead for all you’re worth.’ He shouldered both sports bags, then lifted me effortlessly into his arms, my body slack as a ragdoll. I forced my muscles to yield, breaths faint and erratic, pulse thundering silently beneath the facade, head lolling. Santos approached the door, twisted the lock, and stepped into the corridor, carrying his ‘wounded’ prize toward freedom.

Santos nudged the door shut behind us with his foot, the click echoing softly in the dim corridor. I lay limp in his arms, blood crusted over my skin, heart slamming against my ribs as two guards lumbered over. They whistled low. ‘Damn, the boss went all out tonight—she looks fucking dead.’