Chapter 6 - Bianca
The bar seems less of a place of solace found at the bottom of shot glasses and more of a place of major life decisions now. The bright lights and neon illuminate the speakeasy in a whole different way now, more annoying than anything else. The man behind the bar, indifferent to the two previous times I stopped by, now pushes a small shot glass with an understanding smile.
“On the house,” is all he says before turning back around to start mixing some new concoction for the customers. He’s disarmingly sweet despite appearing like he really finds working here bothersome at some points. I feel like that, too, sometimes at work. Enough, I remind myself, today is a day to celebrate, and maybe make some stupid decisions. I shake my head before I realize what I’m doing, trying to shake out all the alcohol coursing through my system. I feel it beginning to pile up and make me more emotional than I’d like to be.
The problem is, though, that when I try to clear my head and enjoy the moment, the only image that springs to mind is of his lips on mine, his hand tenderly caressing my jaw. Aleks. His name tastes forbidden on my tongue. I remember the hardness that I could feel pressed against me when we danced, reminding me that it wasn’t only me who was feeling whatever it was that we had. He liked me just as much. His short brown tresses sticking to his face that shone with want, the brown eyes that watched me like a prey he was about to pounce on. I can still feel the chills run down my spine when I remember his mean tongue on mine.
But then I see it —long red hair swaying with her petite figure as she kisses the man who approached us at the beginning of the night. My tie back to reality. I can’t leave Giorgia here —there is no guarantee of her safety if anyone recognizes her, and I’d never forgive myself if something happened to my baby sister that I could’ve prevented. Scanning the crowd for any potential threats—a habit I learned since I was a teen whenever I was with her, watching over her like a hawk—I spot him too. The man— boytoy as Giorgia called him —I forgot about. His tall, slightly bulky figure betrays who he is despite his undercover getup—making him look surprisingly unthreatening and normal. It’s Giorgia’s bodyguard, one that I’ve seen often enough to remember his face and build, but not enough to warrant remembering his name. That is the proverbial nail in the coffin—I can feel my subconscious deciding even before I admit it to myself consciously. Giorgia was safe, I’m free to go.
I’m not really the adventurous type most of the time —not beyond the few spontaneous road trips I had with my classmates just outside the state border in our first year. Not outside partying in the first few years at college. Not really. I can count all the little adventures I went on one hand, but today I really want to add another one to the list. I deserve to let go occasionally, right?
I’m already making my way to the back end of the club, when midway on my way there I note the guard next to the rope stopping most people from entering. The man who looks to be in his late thirties gives me a once over, probably deeming that I don’t look like the usual type to be trying to enter. I can’t help but roll my eyes at him —a habit that got me in trouble a few times in the past, though his unbothered stare implies him being used to customers with an attitude.
“Aleks sent me.” That is the magic password, apparently, having made the man scramble to lift the rope and allow me entry.
The corridor leading to the stairs is lit by lazy yellow hues from the lamps on the red wall. It’s barebones but still gives the space a more sensual feel. The stairs are a spiral leading downstairs, winding and steep, so I grab at the rail—my drunken brain still remembering some sense of self-preservation—as I slowly trudge onwards.
Whimpers and moans fill the air like they were meant to be there instead of the loud bass music. Whimpers and moans? I concentrate on trying to hear more, surprised that my brain doesn’t mark that as odd despite being intoxicated. There are two corridors now, perpendicular to each other and meeting at where the stairs end—exactly where I now find myself, wondering exactly where it was that Aleks said he planned to wait for me. He did say exit, right?
I deduce it’s most likely the one corridor with a door at the end rather than the one to the left, which is filled with a multitude of rooms, lit dimly by dark red light. I can deduce what those are for — the sounds still reach me, and images come to me sooner than I can process them. Step. His mouth moving down from kissing small wet spots onto my jaw, lips now over my breasts. Step. Him taking me here, against a wall, grinding rhythmically into my core. Right in this corridor, where anyone could walk out at any moment, hazed by lust, just like we were on the dancefloor. Another few steps. Almost at the door now. Now unclothed, he’d press himself into me from behind while I’d grasp the wall for support. Whispers of encouragement would fall from him in-between the kisses and marks he’d leave down my neck.
Reaching the door, I hold onto the cold metal of the bar. All I need to do now is push to enter the place I’m meant to meet Aleks. But it seems… Ominous. This doesn’t seem like an entrance anyone uses—to get in or out. It looks like a fire exit, more like. I decide to push the growing seed of worry to the back of my head—I really want to see him again. It would be fine. Anyway—what would the chance of anything bad happening be? The city is full of people today, nothing can go wrong.
The cold air stings as I come outside. The moment I come to, I realize goosebumps are beginning to prickle the skin on my arms. I look around, walking a few steps around to find where Aleks is. It’s very dark, though, and that makes me worry. Why would he want me here? As soon as I start to realize the gravity of the situation—and that something is indeed very wrong—I hear a soft click behind me.
Fuck. I left the doors assuming they’d stay open while I looked around for Aleks, but they closed while I was too busy looking for someone that wasn’t even here. I run to them, touching the area where a handle is usually located, but there is none. Shit. Realizing I have to make my way to the main road to go back in to find Giorgia, I slowly walk towards the open end of the dead-end alleyway. Slowly, because it is dark. But then quicker. I need to get out of here, something is feeling off. Wrong. I mentally scold myself for forgetting to bring the pepper spray I usually carry.
I’m maybe five meters from the opening that I assume leads to the main road—since it’s well-lit and much louder, teeming with conversation of the clubgoers smoking in front of the club. That is when I hear it. Shouting. It makes me jolt, and I grow disoriented and unsure of where the sound is coming from, though the voice sounds very angry and male. Turning on my heels, I run back into the alley, assuming a confrontation started in front of the club. I hope Giorgia is safe, knowing she has her bodyguard with her, and that she wouldn’t come out. But the alarms that were only silent in my head before now blare a sonorous angry tune. Not there. Not back.
It’s too late. I know it’s much too late when I feel rough, heavy fabric being thrown over my head, obstructing anything from view. I know it’s too late when, despite my frantic thrashing, the large body behind me holds me back. I claw at the forearm that presses against my windpipe, keeping the fabric over my head until a second arm takes both my wrists and presses them into my body, hard. I whimper, and the man behind me groans, but I need to keep moving. My legs are still free as he hoists me up and carries me. I attempt kicking into his shins, at which he just tsk s in annoyance. Seeing that I am almost entirely pressed into his body, I don’t have enough space to build momentum for the kick, and it does little more than annoy him.
Okay, I have to calm down first. Breathe. I try to take a few deep breaths in, and although the hand pressing over my throat does not have the grip over my windpipe that it had a few seconds ago, I still find it hard to take full breaths. Okay, now try to remember something from your Muay Thai lessons. Anything. I try to rack my brain for any moves, any strategies to use against a large opponent in this situation, but I come up empty. A small whimper escapes my lips as my frustration and fear begin to overflow into small sobs that I can’t contain. I stop thrashing, deeming the movement a waste of precious energy, especially in a state of shock.
I try to redirect my energy to who it might be instead of how to escape. Maybe if I create a profile of the attacker, I’d think of an idea of how to escape. Find their weak point, perhaps. I’m sure they’re a man, a head or so taller than me, so around 6’2. The hand holding down the bag over me and pressing into my throat is slowly getting looser, probably thanks to me slowing my thrashing. It seems looser than the left. Before I can put any of this information to practical use, I’m deposited onto a cold, hard surface. A loud thunk echoes in my skull. A loud thunk— I must be in a car.
Waiting for a few seconds to make sure I’m alone, I start shuffling with my tied hands—an unwelcome new addition I hadn’t even noticed was added to my ankles and my hands now pressing into my back. My wrists are tied tightly with a thick cord that I assume is some sort of rope, but I hiss with each movement as it digs deeper and deeper into my skin.
When two more thunks echo on my side, I know there are two passengers in the car. It confirms the differing voices I heard before, but it still has my heart sinking deeper into my chest. Two, not one. Fuck. I try to polemize on who it could be but find it useless as the list of my father’s enemies is as long as the Bible itself. But why me? Most outside my father’s close circle barely know I exist. Barely know he has a bastard daughter. This makes no sense. Though a cold chill washes over me when I realize they might’ve hurt Giorgia. I need to get out of here and make sure she is okay. The vehicle we are in accelerates, throwing me further to the back.
Despite the soreness around my wrists that I am now positive is drawing blood, I try to shuffle about and find something even remotely sharp that I can use to cut the cord. Time is running out, and not having even an inkling of an idea as to where we are going or when we will arrive is making me panic. I have to stop to breathe in deep. Just don’t hyperventilate. You need to stay calm. A sudden burst of anger takes me out of my attempt at self-soothing. Great strategy , I think, seeing as I’m probably about to fucking die. Best birthday of mine to date, really.
Before I have time to get to even finding an object sharp enough, the vehicle comes to a stop. It’s then I truly rediscover my relationship with God, long abandoned for years. Something akin to a near-death experience occurs, my brain projecting images from my early childhood into the all-encompassing darkness around me. I see myself, aged maybe four or five, pushed into a little stall with a priest on the other side. You must cleanse your sins , my stepmother used to say, pushing me into the small cubicle. I’d spend hours in Church like that, apologizing for coming from an impure seed. A prostitute’s daughter is no better than her mother , she used to say, venom pouring from her judgemental gaze. So I’d sit there, apologizing to the man on the other side.
I sometimes wondered what he thought; why he’d allow a young child to apologize for the sin of their existence. I knew Sasha hated me with all her being, and later on, I recognized that I did too. I stopped apologizing when I was thirteen, choosing to stay mute rather than respond to her religious ramblings. Giorgia was born when I was seven, and that helped, too—having a little being I could love. A being that didn’t judge me for simply existing.
I’m brought out of my reverie when the doors crash open and I’m pulled by my legs towards the intruder. I’m more at peace now—with this situation—than I should be. Maybe it’s the knowledge that there’s no use fighting back, seeing as I’m almost entirely powerless. But one thing that I know now—that I didn’t before—is that my mouth isn’t restrained. So, in my final moments, I decide to verbally assault whoever decided to take and kill me. I’d make my existence as much of a problem as I can, hoping for a crumb of petty satisfaction before I die.
So I start yelling.
“You fucker! Put. Me. Down!” I’m over his shoulder now, head upside down, and since I can’t bite and do much damage through the fabric, I bring my head back and throw it as hard as I can against his back. It’s not much, but I find it particularly rewarding when the coward groans, muttering a silent crazy bitch that he probably thought I couldn’t hear.
Then I’m slid off with strong hands around my waist, squeezing. I try to thrash again, but they move yet again to press my front down onto his back. This must be the second one, then, I assume, hearing ongoing groaning in front of me.
“Calm. Down.” The whisper in my ear sends a chill down my spine, and definitely not the good kind. But then the chill grows into an icy realization that freezes the blood in my veins —I recognize that voice. But surely not. There’s no way after we danced like that, shared those moments. It doesn’t feel right, just like it didn’t feel right back there in the dingy alleyway.
When the fabric is pulled off my head, the light is too much. It feels like I’m a deer struck still by the headlights. For the first few seconds, eyelids fluttering to help my eyes adjust doesn’t seem to be helping either. But when they do, I’m struck dumb looking at the exact same brown eyes that looked at me so hungry back at the club. I don’t say anything, mouth open and brows furrowed. I’m trying to compute.
Aleks—or whatever his name actually is—lets go of me, still in my restraints, and another one comes into my field of view. This one is slightly shorter than Aleks, but still stocky, and very beat up. I try to grasp onto any details of him I can remember just in case I do manage to make it out of here. I’d need to ID him—he has a scar on his left temple. Brown eyes, too. Just like Aleks. I need to remember. I-
“That’s not her, Aleks.” His words echo in my head.