Chapter 35 #2
I wore white today because I felt like it.
Because the morning sun was streaming through Bruno's bedroom window, and I woke up feeling light.
Happy. I put on this simple white cotton dress with the small buttons down the front, and I thought about how my stomach would start showing soon.
How I'd need new clothes. How Bruno would probably buy me an entire maternity wardrobe before I could even ask.
Now the white fabric is stained.
Dirt from the van floor. A smear of something dark near the hem—oil, maybe, or grease. And blood.
My blood.
I stare at the red spots on my skirt. They came from my finger. The left ring finger, where my wedding band used to sit. The man with the scar—the one who took me from the orphanage—he held my hand down on a table and cut the ring off.
Not carefully.
Not gently.
He sliced through skin to get to the metal, and I screamed behind the tape until my throat went raw.
The wound throbs now. They wrapped it in a dirty rag, more to stop the bleeding than out of any concern for me. The fabric is already soaked through.
I focus on my dress instead of the pain.
White cotton. Small buttons. The way the skirt falls just above my knees. The tiny embroidered flowers along the neckline that I noticed for the first time this morning.
Details.
I need details to keep me grounded. To keep the panic from swallowing me whole.
Because if I panic, I'll hyperventilate. And if I hyperventilate with tape over my mouth, I'll pass out. And if I pass out—
No.
I have a baby now.
The thought cuts through everything else. My hand instinctively tries to move toward my stomach, but the zip ties hold me in place. I can't touch my belly. Can't protect the tiny life growing inside me.
But I can stay calm.
I can breathe.
I can survive.
Bruno will find me.
I know this with absolute certainty. The same way I know the sun will rise tomorrow, the same way I know my own name. Bruno Sartori will tear this city apart to get me back. He will burn down buildings and break bones and do terrible, violent things to anyone who stands between us.
He loves me.
He hasn't said the words yet. Not out loud. But I've seen it in his eyes when he looks at me. I've felt it in the way he touches my stomach, reverent and wondering. I've heard it in his voice when he calls me his wife.
Bruno will come.
I just have to stay alive until he does.
The room around me is dim. Concrete walls, no windows, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It flickers occasionally, casting strange shadows. There's a door to my left—heavy, metal, probably locked from the outside.
I've been here for... I don't know how long. An hour? Two? Time moves strangely when you're tied to a chair with tape over your mouth.
Footsteps.
I hear them before the door opens. Heavy boots on concrete, getting closer. My heart rate spikes, but I force myself to breathe slowly. In through the nose. Out through the nose. Steady.
The door swings open.
A man enters.
Not the scarred one who took me. This one is shorter, stockier, with a shaved head and a thick neck. He's wearing a black t-shirt that strains across his chest and jeans that look too tight. There's a gun holstered at his hip.
He looks at me like I'm furniture. Something to be moved or used or discarded.
"She's awake," he calls over his shoulder.
Another set of footsteps. The scarred man appears in the doorway, and my stomach clenches at the sight of him. He's the one who pressed the gun to my spine at the orphanage. The one who threatened to kill me in front of the children. The one who cut my finger.
His eyes are still empty. Dead. Like there's nothing behind them but darkness.
"Good." He walks toward me, and I force myself not to flinch. "The package was delivered. Now we wait."
Package.
They sent something to Bruno. My ring, probably.
If they want money, this will end easily.
The Sartoris have money. More money than these men could spend in ten lifetimes. Bruno would pay any ransom to get me back. He'd empty every account, sell every property, give them whatever they asked for.
This could be simple.
A transaction.
The scarred man crouches in front of my chair, bringing his face level with mine. Up close, I can see the scar more clearly—a jagged line running from his temple to his jaw, puckered and white against his tan skin.
"Your husband is a hard man to reach," he says. His voice is flat. Emotionless. "But I think we got his attention."
I stare at him. I can't speak, can't respond, can't do anything but breathe and wait.
He turns to the stocky man.
"Watch her. Don't touch her—not yet. We need her intact for the next part."
The stocky man nods.
The scarred man walks toward the door, then pauses. He looks back at me over his shoulder.
"Your husband took something from my employer. Something important. You're going to help us get it back."
He leaves.
The door slams shut behind him.
I'm alone with the stocky man, who settles into a chair by the wall and pulls out his phone. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak. Just scrolls through whatever's on his screen like I'm not even here.
I stare at my white dress.
At the blood stains spreading across the fabric.
And I wait.