I join my hands in a prayer position, his phone squeezed between my hands. I kneel, too, thighs pressed together to hide the part that sticks out. “Of course. I won’t move an inch.” Then I give him my best puppy-dog eyes.
Satisfied, the guard leaves the room. The second he’s gone, I slip out the phone and dial.
Time to save my future husband.
He doesn’t answer right away. I listen to the call ring out, head bowed, phone hidden in my hands. For a second, I feel like I’m really praying.
Pick up. Please, pick up.
“You have five seconds to tell me who you are, how you got this number, and why I shouldn’t have you killed.”
“Only five seconds for all that?”
“April,” he rasps. “You’re okay.”
“Kind of?” I whisper back. “I’m in mafia jail.”
“In what?” he asks. “Wait—how are you calling me?
