Chapter 3
Harlow
After my day at the gym, I return to my modest two-bedroom apartment in the heart of the city. It’s not extravagant, but it’s enough, comfortable, functional, and devoid of unnecessary clutter. I throw together a quick dinner, but sitting still feels like a punishment. The adrenaline from sparring with Enzo still thrums through my veins, an untamed current that refuses to settle, and the note I found earlier gnaws relentlessly at the frayed edges of my thoughts.
The walls of my sanctuary begin to close in, the air suddenly too thick, suffocating. My skin prickles with unease, and I recognize the telltale stirrings of a panic attack creeping closer, slinking beneath my ribs like a beast biding its time.
I need out. Now.
So, I leave.
A little shopping therapy, a long evening stroll, anything to force the chaos in my mind into submission. It’s my time-tested remedy when the weight of my world becomes unbearable. I have two choices, sweat it out or spend it out. The gym, the boxing ring, a relentless run until my lungs burn and my muscles tremble, they remind me I am stronger than the shadows that lurk behind me. But sometimes, the sharp, commanding click of a new pair of stilettos or the gleam of an expensive handbag can accomplish what a hundred punches cannot.
They say money can’t solve everything. Maybe. But it certainly makes life more bearable, and few things are as reliable as designer indulgence.
The cobblestones of Via della Libertà echo beneath my boots as I stride through the city’s high-end district. The boutique windows glow invitingly, their artful displays promising escape and distraction. The evening dissolves into a haze of glossy bags and perfectly curated storefronts. Each purchase feels like a tiny act of rebellion, a fleeting victory against the darker corners of my mind.
Then, I see them, black Louboutins perched like predators on a pedestal. Razor-thin heels, glossy leather, and soles the colour of fresh-spilled blood. They don’t whisper power, they scream it. My fingers trace the smooth, lethal lines of the shoe, and I don’t hesitate. I take them to the counter. Weakness comes in many forms, mine just happens to look damn good.
By the time I step onto the street, the sky is a deep indigo, the last traces of daylight bleeding into darkness. My legs ache from hours of walking, and the weight of the bags in my hands feels like a small victory, a distraction.
Still, as I make my way home, a familiar unease slithers up my spine.
The city hums around me, but the paranoia is louder. A whisper at the back of my mind. A presence just out of sight. I keep my stride even, my breathing steady, but every shadow feels heavier now. Every flickering streetlight casts shapes that shouldn’t be there. I tell myself it’s nothing, but the weight of the note in my bag says otherwise.
I shake my head, exhaling sharply. All I need is a scalding shower and a few hours of dreamless sleep. The unsettling sensation slithers over me. Stronger with each step. I feel it, cold and unsettling. My grip tightens around the strap of my bag, and I glance over my shoulder. The street looks normal enough, people moving about, headlights in the distance. Nothing stands out, yet my instincts scream that something’s wrong.
Fear doesn’t take hold, though. It isn’t something I allow myself to feel anymore. If it’s him, if it’s anyone, they’ll soon realize I’m not an easy target.
I slow my pace as I turn down a quieter path. The light from the streetlamps is dim here, casting long shadows that stretch across the pavement. I see a figure stepping out in front of me, blocking my path.
He’s tall and young, maybe mid-twenties, his face frustratingly nondescript. But there’s a sinister quality to his presence, a discomfort in the way he stands. He’s wearing a suit, but it doesn’t soften him. If anything, the formality feels like a mask meant to obscure something darker.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for the gun beneath my blouse, the familiar weight of it resting against my ribs. Adrenaline hums through me, whispering promises of violence, urging me to let it loose if this stranger gives me so much as a reason.
He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t offer the usual, predictable pleasantries of a chance encounter. No, he stands there in the narrow alley, his posture radiating a predatory calm. His eyes meet mine, and the way he looks at me is enough to curdle my blood, with disgust. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. It’s the look of a man who thinks he’s already won.
“Move,”
I say, my voice cold, almost lazy.
He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a glint of amusement twisting his lips into something akin to a smile. It’s the kind of expression that tells me he’s already decided I’m his next game. The disgust churns in my stomach, but not at him, at the familiarity of this scene, at the sheer banality of his arrogance.
“What’s a beauty like you doing wandering these streets alone at night?”
His voice is low, almost a purr, but it’s laced with darkness. He takes a step forward, and instinctively, I step back.
“There are wolves in the shadows,”
he continues, his smile stretching too wide, baring too much teeth.
“Hunters, waiting for the perfect moment to claim what they desire.” He pauses, his gaze dragging over me.
“And tonight, bella, I’ve decided, you’re the prize.”
My grip tightens on my bags, and I force myself to stay calm, my voice cutting through the tension.
“Better step back now,”
I warn.
“if you don’t want your brains scattered all over these walls.”
His hollow laugh echoes through the empty street.
“I love when they talk dirty to me.”
He says, taking another step closer.
“Makes it all the more satisfying to take what they don’t want to give.”
When he lunges, I drop my bags, my body moving faster than my thoughts. He reaches for me, but I pivot sharply, driving the pointed heel of my boots into his groin with as much force as I can muster. His grunt of pain is a brief, savage satisfaction, but it doesn’t last. He recovers faster than I expect, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me backward. The sudden, searing pain shoots through my scalp as he slams me against the rough brick wall. My head cracks against the surface, and my vision blurs with a burst of white. The impact forces the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping as the world tilts.
“That’s it, bitch.”
He snarls, his voice a feral growl as he pins me harder against the wall.
“Now you’ve really pissed me off. So be a good girl and take it all, without making a sound.”
His hand skims the curve of my body, and for a split second, I freeze. Déjà vu hits like a freight train, the memory of Troy’s leering face and greedy hands flashing in vivid, nauseating detail.
What is it with men like this?
The rage rises like wildfire, burning hotter with each breath.
Why do they always think they have a right to women’s body? Why do they think they can take what doesn’t belong to them?
I’m not a victim.
I’d rather die than let anyone make me one.
As he presses closer, I feel for the cold steel beneath my bodice. My fingers curl around the gun, and before he can realize what’s happening, I pull it free. The sound of the safety clicking off is loud in the silence.
His eyes widen, but he’s too late.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
He deserves this.
I cannot let him walk free, cannot allow him to continue this, to leave another victim in his wake.
My finger tightens around the trigger, and the night erupts with the sharp, unforgiving crack of gunfire. The man stumbles back, clutching his chest as blood blooms across his shirt like a dark flower. Shock paints his face as he collapses to the ground, gasping for air that won’t come.
I stand there.
Frozen.
The gun trembles in my grip. My vision sharpens and dulls in waves, my ears ringing.
This is the second time in three months.
The second time I’ve taken a life.
The universe must be laughing at my expense.
I stare at his lifeless body.
Numb.
My pulse is thunder in my ears, and yet, I feel nothing.
No guilt.
No remorse.
Just a grim sense of inevitability, as though this moment was always going to happen.
The distant sound of shouting jolts me back to reality. Someone must have heard the gunshot, and called the cops.
The distant wail of sirens grows louder, the sound clawing at my nerves as they draw closer. Blue and red lights flash against the cold walls, casting eerie shadows across the chaos. Everything feels distant, muted, like I’m moving through water. I barely register the paramedics rushing past me toward the body sprawled on the ground. Somehow, I’m the one being led away, wrists bound, shoved into the back of a police car as though I’m the criminal.
The irony burns. The real monster lies unconscious on the pavement, blood spreading beneath him, yet I’m the one in chains.
The ride to the station is a blur, the city lights streaking across the windows in a dizzying cascade. By the time they shove me into the interrogation room, my body feels like it doesn’t belong to me. The room is sterile, harshly lit, with a single metal table and two chairs. A glass of water sits untouched on the table, condensation dripping down its sides. I ignore it, my hands resting loosely on my lap, nails pressing into my palms hard enough to sting.
My breathing is shallow, the weight of the room pressing in on my chest, but I force myself to focus.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
The method kicks in automatically, a reflex I’ve honed over years of keeping panic at bay.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
My eyes fix on the table, the smooth, reflective surface grounding me in the present.
I won’t fall apart.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever.
Burn me, break me, bury me but I’ll rise from the ashes sharper than before, my fire too fierce to extinguish.
The silence in the room is deafening, but my thoughts are louder. Each breath steadies me just enough to hold it together, but the memories claw at the edges of my mind. They linger like shadows, refusing to be silenced.
The door opens, and a man steps in. Middle-aged, wearing a uniform, and an attitude that enters the room before he does. He looks at me like I’m a bug he’s deciding whether to squash.
He takes a sit across from me, dragging a chair with an obnoxious screech. He doesn’t speak right away, just stares like he’s waiting for me to crack.
Finally, he leans forward, his lips curling into a sardonic smile.
“Self-defence,”
he says, his tone laced with sarcasm, his faint accent drawing out the syllables.
“That’s your story? You’re just a fragile little girl who had to protect herself?”
I keep my expression cold, my voice steady and unyielding.
“I want a lawyer. And I want my phone call.”
He snorts, shaking his head like I’ve just said something ridiculous.
“Oh, you have demands now? You think you’re special?”
His lips curl into a sneer.
“Let me make something clear, women like you should stick to playing dress-up, not pretending they belong in a fight they can’t win.”
I lean forward, mirroring his intensity. My voice is calm but cutting.
“And men like you should stick to filing paperwork, not pretending they wield power.”
That silences him for a moment, but only briefly. His expression darkens, and a slow, mocking smirk stretches across his face as he reclines in his chair.
“You really have no idea who you shot, do you?”
I hold his gaze, my silence unwavering.
“Did he die?”
I ask finally, my voice cold.
His smile remains, but it’s devoid of warmth.
“You don’t comprehend the magnitude of the mess you’ve created, principessa. And that fake ID we confiscated? Oh, we’re digging into it thoroughly. So brace yourself. This is just the beginning.”
He rises, adjusting his belt.
“I’ve got a call to make.”
He announces, pulling out his phone. He doesn’t bother to specify who he’s calling, but the glint in his eye makes it clear, it’s someone significant.
He walks out, leaving me alone in the blindingly bright room. I lean back in the chair, waiting. Whatever’s coming, I’ll face it.
I’ve faced worse.