I woke to softness. A low hum escaped my lips – then the shock hit. This wasn't my room. Not even close.
My gaze swept the enormous space: crystal chandeliers dripped gold onto dark mahogany, opulent walls whispering of a bygone era. The collision of 1900's grandeur and modern luxury made my chest seize.
A sharp, stabbing pain throbbed in my head. My fingers pressed against my temples, memory flashing violently – the gala, my phone, Sorella, the spiked drink, my stolen bag, the blue eyes….
Blackness. My stomach twisted. I'd been kidnapped.
My legs trembled as I pushed upright on the silk bed. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender, untouched. I swung my feet over the edge, instantly staggered back. My eyes darted – high ceilings, rich carpets, golden accents catching the faint, liquid gleam of shadows dancing along the walls. Nothing resembled my Manhattan apartment.
I staggered toward the window, clutching my throbbing head. Maybe if I could just open the curtain, I'd see where I was.
My fingers fumbled with the golden fabric, pulling it aside –
And froze.
It wasn't a window. It was me.
A giant framed photograph stared back. My breath hitched. I was sprawled across my own bed, blonde hair messy over the pillow, my silk slip barely clinging to my shoulder. That was my room. My bed. The identical sheets. The precise lighting.
I stumbled back, my stomach twisting into a knot. That wasn't art. It was a photograph. A real photo.
How?
Was I being watched this entire time?
I tore my gaze from the photo, refusing to let my mind go there. I needed to Leave. Now.
My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm in my ears as I spotted the door at the far end of the room. I shot toward it, gripping the handle. It protested with a soft, damning creak. The lock gave way, opening onto a grand foyer – sleek, opulent, and utterly alien.
Golden light glowed from recessed panels in the ceiling, bouncing off crystal décor. Through the vast glass walls, I saw palm trees swaying, the night air shimmering with gold reflecting from a pool outside.
I'd already stepped past the grand foyer – and for a split second, I almost forgot I was running for my life. The place was breathtaking –modern luxury infused with old-world decadence.
Then voices, footsteps.
I froze.
Instinctively, I pressed myself against the nearest wall. Shadows shifted; I pressed harder, willing myself invincible. Thank God they hadn't seen me.
From the corner of my eyes, I caught movement – a tall man, his stride smooth, deliberate, predatory. An older man trailed him nodding curtly. They spoke too fast, clipped, urgent – a language I couldn't name, thought it sounded like Italian.
Then I saw the dragging. Behind them, two men hauled another man across the floor. Blood slicked the stone, a dark trail behind his torn shirt. His arms flailed weekly. His voice was a ragged whisper of pain, begging, screaming in vain. And then – my stomach dropped. I knew that face. It was the man who'd stolen my bag and phone at the gala. Even through the foggy memory of the spiked drink, I knew his face.
The tall man turned sharply toward the man on the floor, and for a fraction of a second, the angle of his face was perfect – the moonlight, the way his features were lit – it was enough. Those piercing ice-blue eyes. The same eyes that has stared into me at the gala before I blackened. Recognition slammed into me like a wave.
A gasp escaped me before I could stop it – all heads swivelled in my direction. My hand shot over my mouth, but I could feel their eyes piercing, scanning.
They resumed talking, as if they hadn't noticed me. My chest heaved, adrenaline sharpening every sense.
"Bastardo!" (Bastard), the tall man barked suddenly in Italian, voice sharp as steel. His gaze dropped to the man on the floor. "I told you to lure her out. Not to get close to my woman. Not to speak to her. How dare you defy me!"
My eyes widened, they were talking about me? Every fibre of my being screamed, to run, to hide, to disappear, but my legs refused to move.
A pause. Then –
Bang.
The sound didn't just rip through the air; it shredded it, tearing my eardrums like a thunderclap detonating inches from my skull. I flinched, biting back a raw scream that clawed at my throat. My hands flew up, not to cover my mouth, but in a frantic, useless gesture to ward off what my eyes had already captured: the horror unfolding directly in front of me.
The man who had stolen my bag. He was shot by the blue-eyed demon. His body lay still, utterly lifeless. Dead. Just like that.
I hated blood. I despised murder. The sight of death –of someone's life out so easily made something twist deep inside me.
Then, all at once, every head turned. No – snapped toward me. A dozen pair of eyes now pinpointed on my hiding place.
The men froze, a tableau of silent, menacing recognition. Then he – the blue-eyed man – lifted his head, slow and deliberate, like a predator catching the first scent of prey on a subtle shift of wind. His gaze, a terrifying, crystalline ice-blue locked onto mine. It wasn't just cold; it was utterly, absolutely merciless.
He didn't just see me. He knew me, knew my fear, tasted it.
My knees, suddenly liquid, refused to hold. They buckled, sending a jolt of pure terror through my legs as I began to fall.
The last thing I saw, the last horrifying image burned into my retina before the encroaching black swallowed everything, was the faint, deliberate curl of his mouth. Not a smile, never a smile. It was something far more sinister – a chilling, silent language spoken in the briefest shift of lips, somewhere between a smirk of triumph and a cold, insidious promise of what was yet to come.