Chapter 17 Neve
Neve
It was settled. I was moving in with Zelda.
The decision landed with a strange mix of relief and dread, like stepping off a cliff and hoping the wind remembered how to catch you. She was chaos and incense and intense opinions, and I knew that living with her was either going to save me or set me on fire.
And stupidly, stupidly, my first thought was that maybe, being in such close quarters, I could finally nudge her toward giving Paolo a real chance. The man practically worshipped the ground she stomped on with her heeled boots.
Then again… this was Zelda. She didn’t budge for anyone. Not fate, not men, not even the universe when it begged. So maybe I was dreaming. Or maybe I just wanted to believe she deserved a happy ending.
I started packing the second I got home.
My hands moved quickly, as though if I kept them moving, my brain wouldn’t have room to replay the alley.
I pulled open drawers, yanked clothes from hangers, folded them only enough to make them fit into my battered suitcase.
What little I owned didn’t take long—a few pairs of jeans, a handful of shirts, worn-out sneakers, my jacket, the book I’d been carrying around for three cities because it felt too personal to leave behind.
The things I would need in the few days it would take me to give notice at the restaurant and move everything to Zelda’s place stayed where they were. The rest went into the bag. Quick. Efficient. Like I was preparing to run without ever looking back.
The house was quiet while I worked, a hollow, empty stillness that made me feel like the walls were watching me breathe.
The late-afternoon light slanted through the thin curtains, dust motes drifting lazily through the air.
Somewhere down the street a dog barked. A car passed. They were normal sounds. Safe sounds.
I told myself that meant I was safe.
I zipped the suitcase halfway and knelt to shove a pair of shoes inside when I heard it.
Not the usual settling of the house. It was nothing like the soft groan of old wood expanding in the heat. It wasn’t the pipes or the roof or any of the familiar noises I’d learned to ignore.
This was different.
A single creak.
Low. Heavy. Wrong.
It sounded like weight shifting where it shouldn’t be. Like someone moving very slowly, very carefully, hoping not to be noticed.
A footstep.
And every nerve in my body went razor-tight.
I froze with a shirt in my hands, my pulse slamming against my ribs, hard and frantic, as if trying to warn me or break free.
I held my breath and listened.
The house was too small for tricks of the mind. There was nowhere for sound to wander, nowhere for a stranger to hide without being practically on top of me.
If someone was here… they weren’t far. They were close. Terrifyingly, breathtakingly close.
I swallowed once, silently, and lowered the shirt.
My fingers slid to the back of my waistband, brushing the hilt of the knife tucked beneath the waistband of my jeans.
There was another sound. It was subtle, wrong. A soft, metallic click—the sound of a door being eased shut.
Behind me.
I spun so fast the room tilted.
A man filled the doorway. He was big and broad, built like a wall with a menacing scowl on his face. His eyes locked on me—flat, certain, already victorious. Behind him, two more shapes shifted into view, shadows stacking on shadows.
Three of them.
A cold drop of dread sank into my gut, but my muscles moved on instinct, faster than fear.
The first man lunged.
I snatched the lamp from the bedside table and swung hard.
The impact was vicious. Glass exploded, and his shout cracked through the room as he clutched his bleeding face.
Behind him, one of the others snarled, “Grab her!”
I didn’t give them the satisfaction.
I shoved the injured man into the doorway and bolted toward the kitchen, but a hand clamped around my arm. I twisted brutally, driving my elbow backward into ribs.
I heard a grunt as air was knocked from lungs. The man’s grip faltered just enough.
I tore free.
Then fingers knotted in my hair and yanked.
White-hot pain ripped across my scalp. A sound burst out of me—raw, instinctive, more rage than fear.
I spun with the momentum, knife already in my hand, silver flashing.
The man holding me jerked back, but he was too slow. My weapon sliced across his knuckles, skin splitting open like wet paper. Blood spilled fast, running down his wrist in thick, hot streaks.
He cursed, stumbling, shock widening his eyes.
“FUCK—you didn’t tell me she’s a goddamn animal!”
“That’s what you get,” I spat, already turning toward the door.
But the second man caught me around the waist, hauling me back like I weighed nothing. I flung my head backward until my skull cracked against his nose. He yelled, grip faltering.
I dropped to the floor, rolled, and kicked out. My heel connected with a shin.
Someone cursed again. Furniture crashed. My tiny table flipped.
But there were too many of them, too many hands, too much brute strength. One man tackled me down, his knee pinning my chest so hard I couldn’t get a full breath. Another grabbed my wrist, slamming it against the floor until my knife skittered away under the bed.
I twisted my head and sank my teeth into the closest thing I could reach. Flesh. Warm and human. I bit down hard, past the surface, past restraint, tasting copper.
The man howled, his voice high and wild, the sound of someone who had never imagined pain could come from the thing he thought would be easiest to handle.
“FUCK—she bit me! She fucking bit me!”
“Don’t mark her!” another shouted. “Boss said not to touch her, you idiot!”
A fist crashed into my cheek. Pain burst behind my eye; hot, searing, nauseating.
The world flashed white, then black, then exploded into a spray of stars. My head whipped sideways. My vision swam. But my hands didn’t stop.
They were still moving on instinct—scratching, clawing, grabbing at anything I could reach.
Flesh, fabric, hair… whatever my fingers closed around, I tore at it.
My nails raked skin. My knuckles cracked against bone.
I was still fighting, still refusing to go limp, even as my arms felt like they were filling with sand.
The room tilted. My breath stuttered and my knees buckled.
Three against one. Three bodies pressing down, blocking light, blocking escape, draining every last ounce of strength I had.
My limbs were still swinging, but my body… my body was starting to fold. Betrayed by exhaustion, by pain, by the brutal math of being outnumbered and outmuscled.
I kept fighting until even my fury couldn’t hold me upright. And still, I didn’t stop trying.
One of the men grabbed both my wrists, twisting them behind my back. Another bound them with zip ties that cut into my skin. The last clamped a hand around my ankle as I kicked, dragging me across the floor like a rag doll.
I thrashed until my muscles burned. I screamed until my throat tore raw.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not against three men who knew exactly what they had come here to do.
“Bitch won’t sit still,” one muttered, breathless.
I tried to twist out of their hold. A boot pressed into my stomach, pinning me down. I gagged, sucking in air that refused to reach my lungs.
“Enough,” the leader barked. “Bag her.”
A rough cloth dropped over my face before I could pull away. Darkness swallowed everything.
Three sets of hands lifted me, rough and hurried. My shoulder hit a doorframe. Then I felt cold air whisper against my skin.
“You hurt her face,” one man hissed. “Boss is going to skewer you alive for that one.”
“He wants her pretty,” stated another. I had no idea who they were or what they wanted, but there was no ignoring the menace in their thick accents. If I had to guess, I’d say they were Eastern European.
Pretty.
The word tasted like venom.
I thrashed again, blindly, catching someone’s knee with mine. He swore and punched me—not hard enough to knock me out, but enough to stun me.
My lip split wider. Warm blood trailed down my chin.
I felt something scrape around my wrists, then tighten, imprisoning even my hands.
“Put her in the van,” one of them ordered.
They threw me inside what felt like a cabin. The metal floor hit my ribs hard.
The doors banged shut with a finality that cracked through me like bone.
The engine roared before the van lurched forward.
I was shoved against the wall of the van, wrists bound, face covered, my pulse thundering like war drums.
I breathed through the panic and rage. Through the refusal to break.
Because I didn’t know where they were taking me—but there was one thing I did know with absolute certainty: the thought of whoever was waiting for me made something cold and slick unfurl in my gut, fear spreading through me slow as ink in water.
I was terrified. Truly, deeply terrified.