Chapter 2 #2
"Looks that way. She arranged for someone—the man I have tied up in the back of the car—to take her to the train station." I watch her test the partition again, her movements precise and methodical. Not panicking, analyzing. "She's not what I expected."
"Complications?"
"Nothing I can't handle." I glance at her again. She's stopped pounding on the glass and is now sitting perfectly still, watching me with conniving eyes. "She's contained.We move on as planned."
"Good. Keep me updated."
I hang up and meet her eyes in the mirror. She's gone eerily still, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Her face is a study in controlled rage. High cheekbones flushed with anger, full lips pressed into a taut line. She's beautiful in that untouchable way of women born to privilege, but there's something else there—a hardness that doesn't match the pampered princess narrative.
I press the button to lower the partition just enough to speak.
"Why were you running from your wedding?" I ask, my voice deliberately casual as I turn onto the highway.
She stares back, defiant. "Fuck you."
"Not an answer." I say. "Most women don't flee six-figure weddings without good reason."
"Most kidnappers don't ask their victims personal questions," she snaps. Her fingers move to the thin ring on her right hand, twisting it anxiously before she catches herself and stops.
"I'm not most kidnappers."
A new calculation crosses her face. She leans forward slightly, her expression shifting to something more strategic.
"How much are they paying you?" she asks, voice a silky purr. "Whatever it is, I can double it. Triple it."
I almost smile. Predictable.
"Take me to the train station," she continues, "and I'll transfer the money immediately. No questions asked."
"Not interested."
Her eyes narrow. "You haven't even heard my offer."
"Don't need to."
"Ten million" she says, leaning closer to the partition. "Untraceable."
I let out a low chuckle, watching her eyes widen at my reaction. Ten million—not even a blink. The calculation in her gaze shifts to something more desperate.
"Something funny?" she demands.
"You. Throwing around millions like candy. Let me guess—this isn't your first kidnapping?"
Her jaw tightens. "Twenty million."
I shake my head, enjoying the way her composure cracks. Fucking fascinating.
"Not about money, piccola ." I take a sharp turn onto a side road, watching her brace herself against the seat. "But keep going. I'm curious what else you'll offer."
"Thirty—"
"Save it," I cut her off. "Not happening."
She slams her palm against the partition, frustration finally breaking her controlled facade. "What do you want then? Information? Leverage against my father? Raymond's business secrets?"
"Interesting options. You seem eager to betray everyone."
"Fuck you," she hisses, that aristocratic mask slipping completely now. "You have no idea what they've done."
I raise an eyebrow. "Tell me."
Her eyes flash dangerously. "Go to hell."
"After you, princess."
She launches into a string of Italian curses that would make a sailor blush. I'm genuinely impressed—the sheltered Lombardi heiress has quite the vocabulary. Each word reveals more of who she really is beneath the polished exterior.
When she finally runs out of breath I lower the partition further.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"We don't have much time," she says, switching tactics. Her voice an urgent whisper. "They'll notice I'm missing soon. My father has connections everywhere. Police, government?—"
"You don't need to worry about that."
"You don't understand," she insists. "Raymond will tear the city apart looking for me."
"Let him try."
She studies me, a new wariness in her expression. "You seem very confident for someone who just kidnapped the daughter of Antonio Lombardi."
I shrug. "I've read the instruction manual on kidnapping. It covers dealing with mouthy heiresses who think they know better than their captors."
She rolls her eyes, the gesture so dismissive I almost laugh. Even captured and locked in the back of a car, she's acting like she's the one in control.
"My bag," she says suddenly, sitting up straighter. "You better have left my bag where I put it, or I swear I will make your life a living hell."
I can't help it—I laugh. The throaty sound fills the car with my genuine amusement at this woman threatening me from inside what's essentially a moving prison cell.
"A living hell?" I repeat, meeting her furious eyes in the rearview mirror. " Piccola , you have no idea who you're talking to."
Her face flushes with anger but there's something else there too—cunning. She's not just worried about clothes or makeup. That bag matters.
"I'm serious," she says, her voice dropping. "That bag is important."
I noticed the bag when I grabbed her—expensive, but not flashy. She'd been clutching it like her life depended on it. I didn't have time to check it, too busy securing the driver in the trunk.
"Your threats don't mean shit to me," I tell her, reaching for the partition control. "Save your breath."
"Wait—" she starts, but I've already pressed the button.
The bulletproof glass slides up completely, cutting off her voice mid-sentence. Her mouth keeps moving, those full lips forming what I assume are more creative Italian curses.
I turn my attention back to the road. I'm not here to make conversation with Antonio Lombardi's daughter, no matter how intriguing she might be. Damiano gave me a job—grab the girl, bring her to the safe house, keep her contained until he decides what to do with her.
Simple.
This can't be happening. I planned everything perfectly. The fake schedule change, the encrypted messages, the timed distractions. I was supposed to be free by now.
Not in the back of this car.
I glance at my watch. The ceremony would be starting in less than ten minutes. Raymond will be waiting at the altar, that practiced politician's smile plastered on his face. The same face I saw in those horrifying photos on his USB drive.
My heart pounds painfully against my ribs. Raymond will notice the USB is missing soon. When he realizes I've taken it and disappeared on our wedding day he’ll...
I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the panic. The irony is almost too much to bear. I wanted to disappear and now I have—just not on my terms.
"Please," I whisper, though I know he can't hear me through the partition. "Just don't take me back to them."
Being kidnapped might actually be the safer option. If Raymond finds me with his USB, with what I know about the trafficking operation... I've seen what happens to people who threaten my father's empire and I imagine that it’s the same in Raymond’s too.
I straighten my spine, forcing my breathing to steady. I need to think clearly. This man, whoever he is, hasn't killed me yet. That's something. He seems more annoyed than murderous. I can work with that.
My fingers find my mother's ring again, drawing strength from it. She always told me my mind was my greatest weapon. Time to prove her right.
I watch through the window as we leave the busy streets behind. The upscale neighborhoods with their manicured lawns fade away, replaced by increasingly industrial areas. My stomach tightens as I recognize where we're heading—the warehouse district. Perfect place to make someone disappear.
"Where are you taking me?" I yell, although I know he can't—or won't—answer through the partition.
The car slows as we turn down a desolate street lined with dilapidated warehouses. Broken windows stare like empty eye sockets. Graffiti covers corrugated metal walls. Not a soul in sight.
I scan desperately for anything I could use as a weapon. If I could just reach the pepper spray buried at the bottom of my bag.
The car stops abruptly. Through the tinted windows I spot a black SUV parked ahead. Two men stand beside it, both wearing dark suits, both watching our car with predatory focus.
"No, no, no," I whisper, yanking frantically at the door handle though I know it's locked.
The men approach both sides of the car like coordinated hunters. One reaches for my door handle and the lock clicks open.
The moment the door swings wide I launch myself forward, leg extended in a desperate kick aimed at his chest. But my aim is off—my foot slices through empty air as he sidesteps easily.
"Shit! Grab her!" he shouts.
Rough hands seize my arms, dragging me from the backseat. I thrash wildly, my elbow connecting with something solid.
"Fuck." he curses, his grip tightening painfully.
I open my mouth to scream but before any sound escapes, a damp cloth presses hard against my face. The chemical smell hits my nostrils—sweet, medicinal, overwhelming.
I hold my breath, twisting my head, but his hand follows, pressing the soaked towel firmly against my mouth and nose. My lungs burn. I can't hold out. I gasp involuntarily.
The world immediately begins to swim, buildings tilting at impossible angles. My limbs grow impossibly heavy. I try to fight but my body won't respond.
The last thing I see is the cold blue sky above as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, swallowing everything.