CHAPTER EIGHT
Sasha
I LIE HERE on the plush, white bed, staring up at the ornate canopy. It's all so luxurious, so suffocatingly luxurious. I wish I were with Dad right now.
Instead, I'm trapped here, held captive by a man whose intentions I can't fully decipher. Marco. Did he really kill those men at my home? I shiver involuntarily at the thought. What about Lucas? The name alone sends a chill down my spine. I've heard the stories, the ones whispered in fear, tales of his brutality. I thought he was locked away, far removed from this world. But seeing him here, alive and very much present, has made me realize just how deep I'm in.
I pull the soft, cashmere blanket closer around me, as if it could shield me from my fears. Marco promised that after the charity event, I'd be free to go. But can I trust him? Every instinct tells me to be cautious. Yet, what choice do I have? I cling to that hope, fragile as it is, that he'll keep his word.
I can’t lie still, so I climb out of the four-poster bed that dominates the space. Everything is white-themed, from the silk sheets to the plush carpet underfoot, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, offering a breathtaking view of the night sky and the mountains beyond. The moonlight spills in, casting a soft, silvery glow across the room. It's beautiful, undeniably so, but it feels like a gilded cage.
I walk over to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The mountains in the distance are cloaked in shadows.
I know I just need to get through the event, and then…this will all be over.
I glance back at the bed, thinking that if I sleep, morning will come faster, but as inviting as it is, this all feels like quicksand. I need to move, to do something. I start to explore the room, trying to distract myself from the storm of thoughts in my head. The bathroom catches my eye first. It's enormous, with gleaming gold fixtures and pristine white tiles. It's the kind of bathroom you'd see in a movie, not one you'd actually expect to use. The bathtub is a massive, claw-footed masterpiece, and the shower looks like it could fit an entire football team.
I move on to the walk-in wardrobe. It's filled with fresh linen, fluffy slippers, and a soft dressing gown that looks like it could hug you to sleep. I consider taking a shower, letting the hot water wash away some of my stress. But the thought of stripping off, being vulnerable even for a moment, keeps me rooted in my clothes.
I take out my phone, the one lifeline I have to the world outside. Aunt Karen's number is at the top of my contacts. I almost hit dial but hesitated. It's late, and the last thing I want is to worry Lily. She's been through enough already. I put the phone back in my pocket, feeling more isolated than ever.
I return to the bed, lying down and trying to close my eyes. But sleep is elusive. My mind is racing, a jumbled mess of memories and fears. How did it come to this? Not so long ago, I was stepping off a bus, my heart full of hope and determination. My life in Australia wasn’t glamorous. Living in a hostel, working at a café for cash in hand, scraping together enough to get through my studies. It was hard, but it was simple. There was a rhythm to it that I understood and even found comfort in.
I think about the café, the smell of freshly ground coffee, the sound of milk steaming, the chatter of customers. It was a world away from this mess. There, I had friends; I had freedom; I had a future that I could shape with my own hands. Here, everything feels uncertain, controlled by forces beyond my understanding.
I miss the simplicity of my old life, the straightforwardness of it. Even on the hardest days, I knew where I stood. Now, I have no idea what I am getting myself into. I’m clinging to the hope that Marco will keep his promise. I turn onto my side, staring at the moonlit view outside. The mountains stand silent and unmoving, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me.
I toss and turn, but sleep refuses to come. My thoughts are a tangled mess, and the more I try to quiet them, the louder they become. I can't just lie here any longer. I throw off the blanket and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet sink into the plush carpet as I stand, the cold air prickling my skin.
I take out my phone again and open Google, pulling up St. Lourdes’ Hospital number. I can assume that’s where my father is, because it’s the closest one.
I find the number and hit dial.
“Main desk of St. Lourdes Hospital. Do you have an extension number?” The receptionist sounds like a recording. Maybe she has to say the same thing a hundred times a day.
“No, I’m looking for my father. He was brought in a few hours ago.”
“What department is he in?”
I have no idea, and I tell her as much.
She exhales loudly. “What’s his name?”
“George Gillespie.”
She taps away. “Date of birth?”
I almost laugh. I knew his birthday was in November, but my dad was funny about his age and never celebrated it.
“Look, I don’t know, but I’m his daughter.”
“You need to come here and present some ID. I can’t just give out information.”
Frustration has me hanging up.I need to see Marco, to make him understand how important it is for me to see my father.
Determination fuels my steps as I leave the room, the door clicking softly behind me.
The hallway is dimly lit, casting long shadows that make everything feel even more surreal. As I pass by the first set of doors, I encounter three security men. Their eyes follow me, and one of them steps forward.
"Miss, is there something you need?" His tone is polite, but there's an edge to it, a reminder of the invisible bars that confine me.
"I need to see Marco," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's urgent."
The man shakes his head. "Marco's busy at the moment. Is there something we can help you with?"
I consider for a moment the words on the tip of my tongue. I could ask them to take me to the hospital, to my father. But I know the answer before I even speak. Unless Marco gives the go-ahead, I'm stuck here. "No, it's fine," I mutter and start to walk away.
They let me pass, their gazes heavy on my back. I head toward the kitchen, hoping against hope that Marco might be there. The house is eerily quiet, the grandeur of it all only adding to my sense of isolation. When I reach the kitchen, it's empty. The stainless steel appliances gleam under the soft lighting, and the scent of some earlier meal lingers in the air.
I lean against the counter, my fingers tapping nervously against the cool surface. No one seems to care that I'm wandering around, but this freedom feels hollow. It doesn't ease my anxiety; it only amplifies it. I feel like a mouse in a maze, watched but not stopped, my path determined by unseen hands.
With a deep breath, I push myself off the counter and head toward the next room, my resolve hardening with each step.
I move through the house with a purpose, my steps quick and determined. I need to find Marco and make him understand how crucial it is for me to see my father. As I approach a large sitting room, I see him. Marco is sitting alone, his gaze far off, a look of utter devastation on his face. For a moment, he seems so distant, so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't even notice my presence.
Something in me screams to turn back, to leave him alone in his misery, but my need to see my father overrides my instincts. Just as I begin to step back, his head snaps up, and our eyes meet. A shiver runs down my spine at the darkness in his gaze.
"I really want to see my father, Marco," I say, my voice small but steady. I force myself to hold my head high, refusing to show fear.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he picks up a glass of brown liquid and downs it in one go. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Finally, he speaks, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "No."
Just like that. No explanation, no hint of empathy. He pours himself another drink, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass unnervingly loud in the stillness. I watch him, the way his fingers grip the glass tightly, the way he seems to withdraw further into himself with each sip. I know too well the unpredictability of men with alcohol, men like my father.
I pull out my phone. "I called the hospital, but they won’t tell me anything unless I go there.I'll call a cab," I say, my voice firm. "I don't expect you to drive me. I'll be at the charity event, like I agreed."
Marco's reaction is immediate and frightening. He rises, leaving the glass on the coffee table, and storms toward me. The sudden movement, the fury in his eyes, sends a wave of fear crashing over me. My breath catches in my throat as he closes the distance between us.
He grabs my phone from my hand, his grip firm and unyielding. "I said ‘no,’" he repeats, his voice low and dangerous.
Confusion swirls in my mind. Just a moment ago, I thought he was going to help me. The sudden shift leaves me reeling. Despite the fear that grips me, I refuse to back down. "I already told you it isn’t safe," he says, his closeness making it hard to breathe.
My heart races, but I steel myself, resisting the urge to shrink away. "Why isn’t it safe, Marco? What aren’t you telling me?"
Something in his gaze makes me pause. Was he crying? I frown, studying his face more closely. There's a rawness there, a vulnerability I hadn't expected.
"Go to bed," he says, his voice rough and weary.
I don’t move. "Did something happen?" I ask, my concern genuine. "Did you kill those men?" It's the question I've been dreading, but I have to know.
He sneers, his expression hardening. "I should have," he barks, his anger flaring.
I flinch at the intensity of his words. "Did you hear from the hospital?" My voice is softer now, worried. Maybe my dad is in a worse state than I thought.
Marco runs a hand across his face, the mask of anger slipping just enough for me to see the turmoil underneath. "Your father is fine, Sasha. He’s being taken care of. It’s…." He trails off, his eyes unfocused.
I wait, sensing there's more. Finally, he speaks, his voice barely a whisper. "My brother died tonight."
The revelation hits me like a punch to the gut. I want to comfort him, to offer some kind of solace, but the anger that radiates from him makes me hesitant. "I’m sorry," I say quietly, the words feeling inadequate.
He nods, a brief acknowledgment. I wonder which brother it was. Lucas? Danny? Or one of the other two? And what caused it? The men in my house? A crushing sense of responsibility weighs me down, making it hard to move.
"Is there anything I can do?" I ask, my voice small but sincere.
Marco doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead, he fills another glass of whiskey. "Get some rest," he says, a clear dismissal.
I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The weight of everything presses down on me, but I know there's nothing more I can say or do tonight. Resigning myself to his order, I turn and head back to my room.
As I walk, my mind churns with unanswered questions and lingering fears. Tomorrow. I tell myself. Tomorrow, I will see my father, and hopefully, this nightmare will be over. But for now, all I can do is try to find some semblance of peace in the chaos.