Chapter Three
Chiara
E verything is spinning all around me.
I’m vaguely aware of movement, the low hum of an engine vibrating beneath me, but even then, I’m not too sure. My thoughts are too confusing now, and my memory is hazy.
There’s a voice, deep and low, as it bounces all around. I can’t understand the words, some English, and others not, but the dark rumble of his tone is familiar. My head rests against something solid, and I feel the gentle pull of fingers running through my hair.
I wish I could move, I wish I could speak, but my limbs are useless now, and my lips won’t part open. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, but I fight to open them, and slowly, I feel my lashes flutter.
The first thing I see is him.
Under the faint glow of street lights flashing through the car windows, I see him.
Pale blue eyes like shards of ice lock onto mine, and a smirk tugs at his lips—barely there—but it’s enough to make my heart skip a beat.
I moan softly.
At that sound, his fingers tighten around my hair. It’s not enough to hurt me, but it’s enough to force me in place against his body.
As he leans down, I notice the way his smirk grows dangerous, his lips parting as he speaks, his words sending a shiver through me.
“Good morning, beauty.”
He murmurs, his accent curling around each of the three words, smooth and distinctly Russian.
His voice makes my head swim as I blink sluggishly at him, trying to focus on everything that’s happening now.
He breathes me in, his eyes closing shut, and he groans.
My heart races.
They open again, his jaw sharp and clenched, as he leans in to nudge his nose against mine. My breathing catches in my throat. He looks at me—his eyes darting between either one of mine—and that’s when I spot the predator’s gaze in his eyes.
As he pulls away from me, I spot the edge of a tattoo snaking up his neck, and the scar that appears from his stubble stretches along to the bridge of his nose.
I gasp softly, and he chuckles in response.
The sound is low and dangerous, and as he begins to play with my hair again, he brings his other hand to my mouth.
My chest squeezes with panic, remembering the way his fingers were pressed against me to keep me quiet, but he only brushes his thumb along my bottom lip.
“Back to bed, beauty. We’ll be home in no time.”
My mind spins.
“Home?”
I manage to croak, the word barely able to escape my dry throat.
The man doesn’t answer me. Instead, he looks away from me, and over towards the front of the car. The weight of his palm on my head is almost soothing, and against my will, I find my eyes fluttering shut.
The fight drains out of me.
I don’t know how much time has passed.
Everything aches, and my mind…my mind won't stop. I drift from thoughts to memories, a cycle of terror and fear that won’t let me rest. As a tear slips down my cheek, a small sob escapes me, sounding weak and broken as it leaves me.
There’s one question blaring at the back of my mind.
Did she feel this way too?
The thought of my mother slams into me like a blow to my chest. I feel my heart twisting painfully as the tears fall even faster now, and I begin to gasp for air, desperate to finally breathe.
Was this how Mama felt?
When she shoved me away, and she ordered me to hide, and she told me to never come out until Papa was the one to call for me, did she know she was going to die?
Did she cry for us when the first shot was fired?
My shoulders begin to shake as my sobs grow louder, my head moving from side to side as I curl my arms around my middle, desperate to hold onto myself.
There’s a shift in the air, then fingers—rough, calloused—brush against my check. A soft murmur is heard as the touch startles me, but I can’t move away. I can’t even try to.
“Don’t cry.” The voice mocks me in its calmness. “Crying will not do anything.”
The hand wipes away the tears which streak down my cheek, slow and deliberate, as though he is slicing into the soft flesh of my face.
I open my eyes, sobbing harder when I see the same man there. He looks down at me, his face void of any compassion, as he continues swiping at my tears.
My thoughts only spiral further.
Will my family even have the chance to find my body?
With Mama, we were able to hold a funeral.
Will the same be possible for me?
“I want to go home!”
I choke out, my throat tightening as a flash of anger washes over his face.
His fingers tighten around my jaw as he breathes out sharply, eyes dark as they bore into mine.
“You will go home, beauty.” He murmurs softly, his thumb moving higher as he presses the soft pad of it to the corner of my lips. “Save your tears for then.”
His words terrify me.
All I can think about is Papa and Dario.
How will they react?
Losing our mother almost ruined them both, almost ruined their relationship too.
If they lose me too…
I take a deep breath in, hiccuping as fresh tears flow down my cheeks all over again.
“Stop crying.” He says again, his voice sharper this time. “You won’t die, beauty. Not now. Not with us.”
The promise—the threat—hangs heavy in the air.
As I’m pulled into the dark again, my thoughts drift to my family once more.
Papa.
Dario.
This will ruin them.
This will be the end for them.
As my protectors, they will do everything to save me.
What happens if they can’t?
The question is drowned out by the haze as I slip further into unconsciousness.