25. LYLA
Chapter twenty-five
T he second they threw me into the SUV, a black bag went over my head, and someone cinched zip ties around my wrists in front of me, tightening them until the plastic dug into my flesh.
I couldn’t afford to fight with them.
I should’ve let Mr. Stalker have me.
If Carmine trusted him, then he probably wasn’t planning to kill me. He’d had plenty of chances to do whatever he wanted to me, and all he’d done was tease me and ignite a strange mix of fear and hunger.
No he didn’t have a reason to kill me but these men did.
I remembered one of them sitting beside Ciro Delgado at the club. I’d made eye contact with him for half a second—just long enough to see the stone-cold killer behind his eyes.
Ciro didn’t forgive disobedience. Quitting The Sacrifice without their blessing would’ve been taken as an insult. Maybe he would make an example out of me. Maybe he’d kill me quick. That would be a mercy. But he didn’t run a mercy business.
The SUV swerved hard through traffic, throwing me sideways. My head smacked against the window. Every bump jolted me, heightening the panic rising in my chest. I tried to stay calm because freaking out wouldn’t help.
Time didn’t exist inside the bag as my thoughts ran wild. When we finally stopped, I sat there, disoriented. It could’ve been thirty minutes. It could’ve been an hour. Quickly, the door opened, and a hand yanked me out.
A couple of men roughly dragged me along. My bare feet stumbled over concrete, then stone. At some point, they lifted me up a couple of steps. A door creaked open, and a rush of warm, floral-scented air swept across my skin. This wasn’t some warehouse. This was a home.
My foot hit a threshold, and I stumbled, tripping and stubbing my toe. One of the men hissed something in Spanish, and then callused fingers grabbed the back of my neck and shoved me forward.
We continued moving through the house, eventually encountering a flight of stairs. They manhandled me, dragging me upward. We took a sharp right, their footsteps echoing off the walls.
Suddenly, we stopped. Without warning, a hand yanked my arm, spun me, and shoved me hard.
I hit the floor.
A door clicked shut, and a lock engaged.
Breathing roughly inside the bag, I lay still for a long time before I gathered my wits enough to sit up. Hands still tied, I bent my head toward my knees and worked the edge of the bag until it slipped off.
Light flooded my eyes as I blinked, trying to adjust.
My breath caught when I took in the sight of the beautiful room.
No cages. No chains. Just a massive canopy bed, velvet drapes, antique furniture, a chandelier above me, and a window with a wide view of large oak trees outside.
I sat up straighter, forcing myself to my knees and then pushing onto my feet.
Crossing to the window, I looked out onto a pristine lawn. A driveway extended from the house toward a fence off in the distance. There were guards everywhere—near the gate, patrolling the fence. All armed.
A door opened behind me.
I turned.
A middle-aged woman in a gray uniform entered. Her hair was neatly pinned back, her face bare of makeup, her expression fixed in a hard, unblinking glare.
She walked over to me, lifted my hands, cut the zip ties, and stepped back without so much as a crack in her icy demeanor.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “You’re only here for the day.”
I rubbed my wrists. “Is this Ciro’s house?”
She didn’t answer.
“Can I talk to him?”
Still nothing.
“Why did he bring me here?”
She glared at me. “Don’t use his first name. Ever. That kind of mistake gets your tongue cut out.”
My chest tightened. I nodded, swallowing hard. The woman stared at me for another second, then turned toward the door.
“You’ll be prepared for tonight’s events at nine,” she said. “Rest until you’re collected.”
The door shut behind her, and the lock clicked again.
I turned back to the window, rubbing the sting out of my wrists.
There were too many guards outside to count. I had no phone, no tools, and no way out.
I searched the room, finding only empty drawers and nothing sharp enough to cause harm or be used as a weapon. The windows swung open only a few inches. Whoever had set this place up knew exactly how to turn luxury into a cage.
I circled the room again, checking every corner, looking for anything they might have missed. I didn’t care about comfort—I needed options. But there weren’t any.
I had no idea what they had planned for me, but if they took me back to The Sacrifice at some point, I might have a chance to escape because I was so familiar with the exits and the layout.
I just had to survive long enough to be taken there and somehow convince them to let me dance. Then I might have a shot.
Maybe my stalker would come. Probably not. I’d screwed up his plans and gotten him shot at. Whatever interest he’d had in me probably vanished the second I ran from him.
I sat down on the bed and tried to calm my breathing, to quiet the panicked thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. My shoulders ached. After battling those goons at the theater and sleeping on concrete for two nights, my legs were aching. No, rest would not be coming to me anytime soon.
With a huff, I stood and moved to the center of the room. I needed to get control of something—anything.
I dropped into a slow, careful yoga flow, moving through each position with intention.
I let the movements anchor me, using the rhythm to steady my thoughts.
With every stretch, I focused on opening my joints and loosening the tightness in my muscles, forcing my body to fall in line when nothing else would.
Controlled breathing gave me structure, something solid to focus on.
Each pose allowed me to get a little more distance from the fear threatening to consume me.
As long as I kept moving, I stayed somewhat in control of my emotions. But I couldn’t hold it off forever. The moment I stopped, the panic crept back.
For almost an hour, I sat on the floor with nothing to do except worry. Then I moved to the chair. Then I stood again. Nothing felt right.
I walked back to the window. The guards hadn’t moved.
The house was eerily quiet.
And I wasn’t stupid. Delgado didn’t bring women here to have polite conversations.
I wasn’t just some employee who’d quit without notice.
I’d embarrassed him. Disrespected him. That meant I wasn’t walking out of here untouched.
Torture was a given. Rape was likely. The only real question was how long he planned to keep me alive, or worse, how long he would keep me here before selling me.
Eventually, I curled up on the bed, sinking into the soft mattress and pulling the luxurious blanket around me. It was probably the last comfort I would ever experience.
My eyes shut, and all I could see was the face of my stalker.
I thought of the way he’d raised his hands in the hallway. No gun pointed at me. No shouting. Just calm eyes and a cautious voice, as if he was dealing with a frightened, lost pup.
He and the other guy could’ve overtaken me right then.
But they hadn’t. Who was this stalker? This man, whose worried, pale blue eyes had been invading my dreams since I’d served him a cup of coffee and mouthed off to him—why did he keep following me?
More importantly, why did he keep letting me leave?
I didn’t know who—or what—he was. Maybe he was just another kind of monster. But he hadn’t zip-tied my wrists. Hadn’t thrown me into a car. Hadn’t called Delgado.
He’d said my name like I mattered.
I rolled onto my side, clenching my fists into the blanket under my chin.
My parents would’ve hated this. My sister would’ve told me I was irresponsible.
They would have been right.
Before now, I’d lived an easy life—mostly. But my determination to make it big on Broadway—coupled with the fact that I’d never been afraid of anything, never been cautious, laughed in the face of danger like it couldn’t touch me—would be my ultimate downfall.
Now my recklessness had me by the throat.
I thought about my understudy part in City Song, and tears stung the back of my eyes.
Missing a rehearsal without even calling them would result in immediate termination.
They’d replace me the next day with one of the other talented women who’d auditioned.
I’d be a ghost by the end of the day. No one would ever hire me again.
I shut my eyes, my mind drifting again to my Russian stalker.
The one whose voice played over and over again in my thoughts…my dreams. I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. His mouth. His angst. The way he’d kissed me, like he hated himself for wanting me.
I couldn’t understand why he kept showing up out of nowhere.
But right now, I wanted that version of him—the one who’d chased me through that building not to hurt me but to get to me first, like he knew monsters lurked in the shadows.
Maybe I didn’t deserve to be saved. I’d been too impulsive. Too trusting.
But God help me—I wanted him to come.
The door slammed open so hard it hit the wall. I shot up, heart pounding, breath stuck in my throat.
The housekeeper who’d been here earlier stood in the doorway, staring at me stone-faced. Beside her was a younger woman whose arms were full of various items—a costume, a makeup case, and a curling iron.
The bed had been too comfortable. I must’ve dozed off, and now my brain was slow to catch up.
“Stand up,” the housekeeper ordered.
Bleary-eyed, I shoved the covers off, climbed out, and swayed as I stood beside the bed, struggling to wake up fully. It was dark outside the window; I must have slept for hours.
She yanked the blanket up and dropped the costume onto the bed. The younger woman set the case on the dresser and opened it.
They moved as if this was a well-rehearsed routine—one of them silent, one uneasy. Not a word of comfort was offered to me, no attempt made to soften what was coming.