Yavin considers this for a moment, then nods once. “Make it quick.”
I step into the small bathroom at the back of the office and close the door quietly behind me. For a moment, I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. My cheeks are flushed with stress and anger, my dark hair falling out of its ponytail in messy waves. I look tired and overwhelmed, but there's something else in my eyes. Determination.
I'm not going back to that estate to be locked away while someone tries to destroy everything I've worked for. Nick is lying in a hospital bed because of the story I'm chasing. I owe it to him, to myself, and to every person who might be hurt by the corruption I'm trying to expose to see this through.
The window above the toilet is small but functional, with a screen that's seen better days. I test it with my fingers, and it gives way easily. Years of deferred maintenance have made it loose in its frame.
With one last glance at the door, I hoist myself up and climb through the opening, dropping onto the narrow alley behind thebuilding. My feet hit the pavement with a soft thud, and I quickly brush off my clothes and smooth my hair.
I walk briskly around the corner, trying to look casual despite my racing heart. A few blocks away, I spot a small café I used to frequent during my college days. The walls are still painted the same soft mint green, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and espresso wraps around me like a comforting hug.
I slide into a booth near the back, positioning myself where I can see the front door and the rear exit as I pull out my phone.
“Amelia, I need you to come get me. Now.” I keep my voice low, glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention to my conversation.
“Where are you?”
I give her the address of the café, then spend the next ten minutes trying to process everything that's happened. Nick's pale face keeps flashing in my mind, along with the sight of his blood soaking through his shirt. The missing files represent months of work, connections I painstakingly built, and sources who trusted me with information that could destroy their lives if it fell into the wrong hands.
When Amelia slides into the seat across from me, her honey-blonde hair tucked behind her ears and her bright blue eyes wide with concern, I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. She's wearing a pastel pink blazer over dark jeans, looking every inch the successful PR professional, but I can see the worry lines around her eyes.
“Are you okay? What happened exactly?” she asks, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Her fingers are warm and steady, grounding me in the moment.
Before I can answer, the cheerful chime of the café door interrupts our conversation. Two men step inside. They're wearing expensive, tailored suits, and their expressions are as hard as granite. The fabric looks expensive, well-fitted, and entirely out of place in this casual neighborhood café. But it's their eyes that make my blood run cold. They're calculating and scanning the room with the methodical precision of predators searching for prey.
A low gasp escapes my lips as recognition hits me. These aren't random customers stopping by for coffee. They're here for me.
“Amelia,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as I reach for her hand across the small table. My fingers find hers, and I squeeze gently, trying to communicate the urgency without alerting the men who have just entered. “We need to leave. Right now.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's already too late. The men have spotted us, and there's nowhere to run.
15
ELENA
The world narrows into a blur of muffled sounds and blinding light. I wake to the sharp ache in my wrists and the bitter taste of cloth pressing against my tongue. My arms are bound behind my back with a coarse rope that digs into my skin, and my ankles are lashed together. A strip of thick fabric muffles every sound I try to make, trapping even my breath.
My head throbs with a persistent pounding that makes thinking difficult. The last thing I remember is sitting across from Amelia in the café, watching those two men in expensive suits walk through the door. Everything after that is fragmented. Hands grabbed me, the sharp prick of something in my neck, the world tilting sideways as consciousness slipped away.
Beside me, Amelia is gagged and tied just as tightly. Her honey-blonde hair is disheveled, strands sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks. Her bright blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and warmth, are wide with panic as they flicker toward me. Dark mascara runs in rivulets down her face, and her pastel pink blazer is wrinkled and torn at one shoulder. I give her thesmallest nod I can manage, urging her to stay calm. The last thing we need is to feed whoever did this with our fear.
We're inside a dimly lit room that smells of mildew and salt. The air is thick and humid, carrying the unmistakable scent of ocean decay. The walls are wooden, weathered gray planks that appear to have endured decades of salt spray and hurricane winds. The windows are shuttered tight, blocking out most of the natural light except for thin slivers that sneak through the gaps. Judging by the creaking of boards beneath us and the subtle sway I can feel, we're on stilts. Maybe a beach house. A cheap one, judging by the peeling paint and water stains that mottle the ceiling. Somewhere far from the city. Far from help.
The floorboards are rough and splintered, pressing uncomfortably against my hip where I lie on my side. Dust motes dance in the narrow beams of sunlight, and I can hear the distant crash of waves against wooden pilings below us. The sound should be soothing, but instead, it feels ominous, like a countdown to a terrible fate.
My mouth is dry as sandpaper, and my throat feels raw from whatever they used to knock us out. Every muscle in my body aches from being unconscious in an awkward position, and the ropes around my wrists are so tight that my fingers are starting to tingle with numbness.
Voices rise from beyond the closed door, muffled but clearly agitated. I strain to make out words, but the thick walls and my own disorientation make it impossible. Heavy footfalls follow, deliberate and measured, then the groan of rusted hinges as the door opens. Sunlight streams in around the figure standing in the doorway, creating a dark silhouette that makes my stomach clench with dread.
Francesco Bennato.
Even backlit and shadowed, I recognize him immediately. His presence drains the warmth from the air like a cold front moving in. He enters slowly, fully in control, each step a reminder that he intends to savor every moment. His tailored linen shirt is crisp ivory, too refined for the filth of this ramshackle room, and the scent of expensive cologne mixes unpleasantly with the stink of damp wood and decay. The contrast is jarring, this polished predator in such squalid surroundings.
Behind him, two men follow. One is the burly guard from the café, his expensive suit now rumpled from the heat and exertion. The other is younger, with cold eyes and scarred knuckles that tell a story of violence as a profession. Both watch us with the detached interest of men who have done this before.
Bennato walks to me with unhurried steps, his leather shoes clicking against the rough planks. He stops just short of where I lie on the floor, close enough that I can see the details of his face clearly. His gray eyes are even more piercing up close, and the jagged scar along his right jawline glows faintly in the dim light. His thick brown hair is slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place despite the humidity.
With a casual snap of his fingers, the man behind him steps forward and removes the gag from my mouth. The fabric tears away from my lips, taking skin with it. I cough violently, my throat raw and burning. The taste of cotton and blood fills my mouth.
