LVIII
Hazel Winters
I wake up to the sound of murmured voices in the living room. My head is aching from crying, having gotten myself into such a state last night. The text from Alexei had spooked me, especially when he dropped Alessia’s name into the conversation.
I can’t let him get her.
Sliding out of bed, I quickly head to the bathroom to sort myself out before padding into the living room in my pyjamas. All four men are sitting in various places, heads buried in phones in laptops as they speak rapid Italian over each other.
“Morning, Angel,” Andros lifts his head from his laptop as he notices my arrival. I smile at him and immediately walk over to him. He pulls me into him by my waist and kisses me before retreating back to typing on his computer. He pulls his chair further towards the dining table, a serious face emerging on his beautifully chiselled face.
“How did you sleep, Principessa?” Atlas asks from his spot at the kitchen island. I walk over to him next and nuzzle my head into his chest, needing extra comfort after my breakdown last night.
“Good,” I murmur into his chest as he wraps his arms around me. He strokes the back of my head, his hand practically covering it from its sheer size.
“I think Dawson is going to spontaneously combust if you don’t go and give him some attention, Sweetheart,” Atlas chuckles, his chest rumbling against my cheek. I smirk and push away from him, heading over to Dawson who’s standing by the kitchen stove with both arms wide open.
“I thought you’d forgotten about me then, Spitfire,” he teases, needing no encouragement to lift me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and he kisses me softly before leaning back and observing my face.
“How are you feeling?” he asks in a lower, concerned voice. I nod and swallow, trying to put a brave face on.
“I’m okay,” I reply quietly, not really believing it myself. He gives me an unimpressed look but lets me slide down his body and separate myself from him so I can go over to Theo.
When I reach the final man, he pulls me down onto his lap and kisses the side of my head whilst speaking in Italian to someone on the phone. I settle into his chest and sigh before sitting up straight.
“Has he got Alessia?” I ask, waves of anxiety hitting me. The room goes silent at the mention of her name and Theo ends his call before holding onto me tighter.
They all exchange a look between each other, only increasing the dread I feel in the pit of my stomach.
“He does, doesn’t he?” I whisper, my heart pounding in my ears. With a slow, mournful nod from Andros, my breathing hitches.
Fuck.
“We’re trying to find where he’s keeping her now,” Atlas explains. His voice is completely neutral, like he’s activated his Mafia Boss mode.
My eyes find Andros’ and I see the worry and concern radiating in his irises. His Baby sister has been kidnapped by a man I brought into their lives.
I have to end this.
“Do you need any help?” I ask, needing to feel useful.
“No, we’ve got this, Spitfire,” Dawson reassures me. Nodding, I hop off Theo’s lap and head into my room. As I shut the door, I hear them all moving down the hallway into one of their rooms.
Knowing what I need to do, I head into the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror, noting the stress lines on my pale face. My eyes are still puffy from crying the night before, my skin blotchy and uneven. My chest rises and lowers heavily from adrenaline and anxiety.
As I strip off my pyjamas, a glimpse of my scars catches my attention and I twist, running my hand along my lower back. The action grounds me, the puckered, white marks on my skin acting as a reminder of the pain that I endured and survived.
Will I have new ones if I go back?
Will they open up again?
He always wanted me to be the perfect daughter, and I was. I just wasn’t very good at being the perfect victim for him to abuse.
And I sure as hell am not letting him use Alessia.
I turn on the shower and relish under the hot stream. I know it will be the last shower I have in a while, apart from the icy hose he will no doubt use on me when I piss him off. A shiver runs through me at the thought despite the burning temperature of the water.
After taking extra care in washing my hair and draining the apartment of its hot water supply, I climb out and braid my hair into two French plaits. My clothes are carefully picked as I get dressed; ones that I know will withstand the physical abuse he will plague my body with as soon as he has me alone. They’ll also serve me well for days on end.
Who knows how long it will be before I’m given something to change into?
With Dawson’s sage green hoodie covering my black leggings and black baggy t-shirt, I lace up my trainers and stuff a small hold-all with supplies. If he has had Alessia for a while, she is probably under-fed and ravenous.
Checking the kitchen is clear of any of the guys, I finish filling the bag to the brim with snacks and water, before listening out for their voices. When I hear they are still in one of their rooms, I relax a little.
I know it’s wrong to leave without telling them, especially after I told Atlas to keep me involved with their plans. But if I have to keep it from them to save Alessia, it’s what I’m going to do. And I won’t hesitate to either.
With my bag strap on my shoulder, I keep my attention on their faded voices as I walk over to the front door. My hand hesitates on the handle, doubts rushing through my mind.
These men have done a lot for me. I’ve fought them every step of the way but they haven’t relented. Despite their misguided ways, each of them has shown me how important I am to them. They’ve cared for me in a way I never thought I deserved.
But I have to do this.
For Alessia.
I leave the penthouse and call for the elevator. My hands are shaking by the time I set in, and I can barely see straight from the anxiety as I walk through the lobby to the New York streets.
Taxi cabs blare at other cars on the road, the drivers voicing their irritations and impatience through their horns. New York seems to wait for no-one - the city that never sleeps and is always bustling.
Wanting to take a few minutes for myself before I sign away my autonomy, I stroll down the streets. It becomes a task to avoid the rude pedestrians who seem to look through me as though I’m a ghost.
I find a small square a few blocks down, with public benches and a fountain. I take a seat on one of the empty benches and sigh as I try to reassure myself I’m doing the right thing.
It’s for Alessia.
It’s for Andros.
It’s for all of them.
It’s to prove to my father that I can beat him.
“Daughter,” A heavy Russian accent calls from in front of me. I open my eyes and fight the shock of seeing a man I haven’t seen in person for years. He looms over me, his black hair slicked back with a mountain of grease.
“Alexei,” I manage to say his name without wavering as I stand up, “how did you find me?”
“I’ve been watching you for years, Hazy,” he responds, sitting down on the bench I just vacated and gesturing to the space next to him. Hesitantly I sit down, trying not to throw up as he rests his arm along the back of the seat.
“What made you come out of that apartment, Hazy?” he asks me leisurely. He crosses one leg over the other, sitting back in the chair with a relaxed sigh.
“You have Alessia,” I mutter through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to punch him.
“I do,” he nods his head thoughtfully as though I had asked a question and not made a statement.
“That’s why I’m here,” I shrug, folding my arms across my chest.
“And here I thought you broke free so we could have a fun, family reunion,” he laughs, the action sounding wrong and distorted.
“Where is she, Alexei?” I ask impatiently.
“Now that would be telling,” he taps on his nose with an evil smirk. I hear a car pull up behind us and I turn over my shoulder to see a black SUV with the back door slid open.
“Come with me,” he stands up, nodding his head over to it. I roll my eyes at his dramatics but follow him into the backseats.
He gestures for me to sit next to him but I take one opposite, already choosing to rebel against the man that tortured me for my entire childhood.
“Where is she, Alexei?” I repeat my earlier question, irritation heavy in my tone this time.
“She’s safe,” he waves me off before smirking sinisterly, “So is your mother, if you were wondering.” I blanch at his statement.
“She’s dead,” I manage to whisper. My mouth is too dry, my head too heavy on my shoulders. My skin is too tight and the sweat is too much.
“Is she?” he cocks his head, grinning and showing off his mismatched teeth. He’s missing a few, probably having been knocked out over the years from the countless fights he’s no doubt gotten into.
“Take me to her,” I plead, my resolve and earlier strength breaking.
“All in good time, my dear Hazy. All in good time.” He bangs on the roof of the SUV and the car starts to move. As it drives along the New York streets, I feel myself become an enclosed animal for my father’s pleasure.
But I’m doing this for a good cause.
I’m releasing my freedom in the hope of theirs.