44. Victoria
VICTORIA
The call comes a little after seven.
I stare at my phone before answering.
Mum.
Her name on the screen should comfort me.
It does not.
The last time I saw her, she looked frightened in her own kitchen. She told me to say I had never been there. She flinched when Elsie called me mummy.
I answer.
At first, there is only breathing.
Fast.
Broken.
Then a sob.
My hand tightens around the phone.
“Mum?”
“Victoria…”
Her voice breaks on my name.
I push back from my desk so quickly the chair strikes the wall behind me. Olivia looks up from the sofa.
“What happened?”
I raise one hand, stopping her.
“Mum, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
For a few seconds, she only cries.
Then the words come in pieces.
“They found me.”
Cold moves through my chest.
“Who found you?”
“I don’t know.”
Too fast.
She knows enough to be afraid.
“Where are you?”
She gives me an address through shaking breaths.
Old Port Road.
Unit 17.
Near the abandoned storage buildings by the water.
I know the area.
Empty warehouses.
Rusted gates.
The kind of place people pass without looking twice.
“Mum, why are you there?”
“I don’t know. They took me here.”
Another sob catches in her throat.
“Please come.”
Everything in me tightens.
This is wrong.
But she is my mother.
“Stay where you are,” I say. “I’m coming.”
The line goes dead.
Olivia is already standing.
“Victoria.”
“It’s my mother.”
“I heard enough.”
I grab my coat.
She steps in front of me.
“You said she was scared. You said she was keeping things from you. Now she’s calling from a warehouse district and begging you to come.”
“I never said alone.”
“You know what I mean.”
I stop with my keys in my hand.
She is right.
That irritates me because she sounds too much like Lorenzo.
“I’m only going to check on her.”
“And if this is a trap?”
My thumb tightens over the key fob.
The first answer inside me is Lorenzo.
Call him.
Tell him.
Let him handle it.
But I am tired of every frightening thing in my life leading back to him while my hands shake and my voice breaks.
“She’s my mother,” I say.
Olivia’s face softens, but she does not move.
“Then let me come.”
“No. Stay with Elsie.”
“Vicky—”
“If I bring everyone and this turns out to be nothing, she’ll shut down again. I need her to talk.”
Olivia does not believe me.
I barely believe myself.
Still, she steps aside.
I reach the front door with my keys, digging into my palm, and the address glowing on my phone.
Old Port Road.
Unit 17.
My thumb hovers above Lorenzo’s name.
One breath.
Two.
Then I type.
My mum called. She said she’s at Old Port Road, Unit 17, near the abandoned storage buildings. I’m going there now. Please don’t ignore this.
I send it before pride can stop me.
Delivered.
Only then do I open the door.
Cold air brushes my face.
My car waits in the driveway beneath the outside light. Behind me, the house is quiet.
I glance back once, listening for Olivia, for Elsie, for any reason to pause.
Nothing.
I step out.
The door clicks shut behind me.
I make it three steps before a hand clamps over my mouth.
My scream dies against his palm.
An arm locks around my waist and drags me backwards. My heels scrape across the stone. My keys fall from my hand.
Metal hits the ground with a small, useless sound.
I kick back hard and catch him between the legs.
He grunts.
I bite down.
He curses, and his hold slips for half a second.
I twist, reaching for the door.
The handle.
Anything.
Another man comes from the side of the house.
Then a third.
Dark clothes.
Covered faces.
No panic.
One grabs my wrists.
Another catches my legs when I kick again.
I suck in air to scream.
A cloth hood drops over my head.
The world disappears.
“No!”
My wrists are yanked behind my back. Plastic bites into my skin. They pull it so tight my fingers start to tingle.
I fight anyway.
I throw my weight sideways.
Pain shoots through my shoulder when someone catches me.
“Enough,” a man says near my ear.
His voice is calm.
That scares me more than shouting.
They lift me from the ground and carry me.
A car door opens.
They shove me inside. One man slides in on my left. Another on my right. Their bodies pin me in place.
The engine starts.
My own car.
They are taking me in my own car.
I force myself to listen through the hood and my own breathing.
Gravel first.
Then road.
A turn.
Another.
Traffic nearby.
A horn.
Then fewer sounds.
Fewer cars.
I press my thumb against the tie, trying to work it loose.
It cuts deeper.
“Don’t,” one of them says.
I stop.
Minutes pass.
Thirty, maybe more.
The road changes beneath us.
Rougher in places.
But not the broken road near Old Port.
No smell of water.
No gulls.
No warehouse rot.
My stomach drops.
They are not taking me to the address from my mother.
The car slows.
A gate opens with a mechanical hum.
Gravel crunches under the tyres. The car moves forward, then stops.
The engine cuts.
Nobody speaks.
“Mum?” I say through the hood.
No answer.
A door opens.
Hands pull me out. My legs almost fold when my feet touch the ground. One man steadies me by the arm.
Not gently.
Not roughly either.
That scares me too.
They need me alive.
A door opens ahead.
Warm air touches my skin.
We step inside.
Polished floor beneath my shoes.
Then a rug.
A clock ticks somewhere close.
This is not a warehouse.
This is not Old Port Road.
If Lorenzo goes there, he will not find me.
He will go where I told him to go.
My knees weaken.
“Where am I?” My voice sounds raw. “Where is my mother?”
No one answers.
They lead me into another room.
The hood is pulled from my head.
Light burns my eyes.
I blink hard.
A bed sits against one wall, made with white sheets and a grey blanket folded at the end. A dark wardrobe stands near the corner. A bathroom door hangs half open.
Clean tile.
Folded towels.
A glass beside the sink.
No handle on the inside of the main door.
My phone is gone.
My bag is gone.
My wrists are cut free only long enough for them to tie my hands in front of me.
Looser.
Still enough.
“Please,” I say, turning toward the men. “Where is my mother?”
The door opens.
A man stands beneath the light.
Grey hair.
Dark wool coat.
Polished shoes.
He does not hurry.
He only looks at me, and the room seems to understand him before I do.
Then my breath catches.
Mikhail.
My mother’s Mikhail.
Her lover.
But the man in front of me is not the polite widower who brought flowers to her house.
His eyes hold no apology.
“Mikhail Volkov,” I whisper.
His mouth lifts.
“So Lorenzo has been educating you.”
I back up until the bed presses against my legs.
“Where is my mother?”
“Alive.”
“Where?”
“Close.”
My voice shakes.
“Why am I here?”
He studies me for a moment.
“Because Francesco failed.”
Francesco.
The name pulls the air from my lungs.
“My nephew had ambition,” he says, “but no patience.”
“Nephew?”
“You did not know.”
It is not a question.
My wrists ache inside the tie.
“You used him.”
“I funded him.”
“He hurt people.”
Nothing changes in his face.
No regret.
Not even irritation.
Mikhail glances around the room, checking the bed, the door, the men.
Not checking on me.
Checking his arrangements.
“Your father was more careful.”
My breath catches.
“Do not talk about my father.”
His gaze returns to me.
“You were told he died from illness, weren’t you?”
My mouth goes dry.
My father came back from Moscow and fell ill days later.
Food poisoning, at first.
Then blood pressure.
That was what they told us.
That was what my mother cried over.
That was what I accepted because I was too young to demand more.
“What do you know about my father?”
“Enough.”
I take one step toward him.
His men move.
I stop.
“What did you do?”
Mikhail watches me for a long moment.
Then he says, “Not every death needs a gun.”
The room narrows around me.
The clean sheets.
The ticking clock.
The quiet men.
“You’re a monster.”
“No,” he says. “I am patient. More patient than my nephew.”
The door opens again.
One of his men waits there.
Mikhail turns.
“Take her to Isabella.”
My heart jumps.
“Mum?”
The men take my arms.
This time, I do not fight.
They lead me down a short hallway.
New locks.
Thick doors.
Clean walls.
Too quiet for a home.
A man opens the next room.
My mother sits on the edge of a bed with her hands clasped in her lap. Her hair hangs loose around her face. One cheek is red. Her eyes are swollen.
She looks up.
For one second, she does not move.
Then her face breaks.
“Victoria.”
“Mum.”
I stumble forward when the men release me.
She catches me with a sob and pulls me against her chest. She trembles so badly I feel it through both of us.
“I’m sorry,” she cries into my hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”
I grip her shoulders.
“Why did you give me that address?”
Her tears fall harder.
“He made me. He told me what to say. He said if I warned you, he would kill you before I saw you again.”
Old Port Road.
Unit 17.
The message to Lorenzo.
My blood turns cold.
“Mum,” I whisper. “I sent it to him.”
She goes still.
I do not need to say his name.
The door opens behind us.
Mikhail steps inside again.
He sees my face and knows I understand.
“What do you want?” I ask.
His eyes move from me to my mother, then back again.
“We are waiting for the last piece.”
“Lorenzo.”
He nods once.
“I waited for days to make sure you were not being followed by Lorenzo. At first, his men did follow you.”
He continues.
“Isabella gave you the address. You sent it to him. He will come.”
I shake my head.
“He won’t come alone.”
“No. He will bring men.”
Mikhail’s voice stays mild.
“That is why more than enough of mine are already waiting there.”
My mother makes a small broken sound.
“He will arrive at Old Port Road expecting to save you,” Mikhail says. “He will find an empty building and enough guns to end the Nero line before midnight.”
The room fades at the edges.
I see Lorenzo reading my message.
His face.
His hand reaching for his phone.
His men moving because he gives one order and they obey.
He will go because I asked.
Because I led him there.
“And after him?” I ask.
Mikhail looks at my mother first.
Then at me.
“Then both of you become unnecessary.”
My mother grips me again, but I barely feel it.
The message was delivered.
My phone is gone.
Lorenzo has the wrong address.
And the man in front of me built this night around the one thing he knew I would do.
Tell Lorenzo.
Mikhail turns and leaves.
The door shuts.
The lock clicks.
My mother folds into me, whispering apologies I cannot answer.
I stare at the closed door.
The clean sheets.
The locked room.
The false address.
The silence outside.
We are not hidden here.
We are being kept.
Until Lorenzo dies.