Chapter 5
Katarina
I grab my purse and phone, ready to head out, when Damiano’s name flashes on my screen.
“What’s taking you so long?”
A smile slips out before I can stop it, and I scold myself. I ignore his text. Why is he so clingy all of a sudden anyway?
“I’m leaving!” I announce, walking into the living room.
I expect a “Bring your pepper spray” reminder from Mateo, like he always does, but it doesn’t come.
That’s odd.
I check my phone again—8:10 p.m.
He can’t be asleep. Mateo is an insomniac. He doesn't sleep until the wee hours of the night.
“Teo?” I call out. I walk toward his office and see that his door is slightly ajar.
When I step into the room, the world stops.
The first thing I see is his back. His massive body lies face down on the Persian rug.
Color drains from the room, leaving everything in stark black-and-white.
I stare at my brother, willing him to move. To push himself up from the floor and laugh.
But he doesn’t.
The blood drains from my face, and I feel the chill. I force my feet to walk, but nothing happens. Instead, my hands fall limp beside my body, dropping my purse and my phone.
“Mateo!” The sound finally tears from my throat. I fall to my knees, my hands gripping his shoulders, trying to nudge him awake. I push his heavy body, turning him over so I can see his face.
That’s when I see it.
A small hole from a well of blood in his chest, soaking his white T-shirt.
“NO!” My hands start to tremble, and my throat starts to close. I scream, but I can’t hear anything. My shaking fingers reach for his neck to search for his pulse. I find it—weak and thready, but it’s there.
He’s alive.
“CPR,” I whisper through chattering teeth. “I need to do CPR.”
My hands fumble to find the right spot on his sternum. I stack one trembling palm over the other and push. Hard. One, two, three—I count the rhythm in my head, praying for a heartbeat, my tears blurring the sight of his pale face.
“Mateo…” I sob as I attempt to do more chest compressions. Pedro is beside us, barking frantically and snapping at the air. My fear grows bigger the longer he doesn’t respond.
Cloudy with tears, my eyes dart around the room, searching for anything, anyone, or any answer that would help.
Phone, yes. I need to call an ambulance.
I crawl and reach for my phone, which has dropped on the floor, but I don’t reach it.
A black combat boot smashes down on it, pinning it to the floor before kicking it across the room. Before I can even react, a hand grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me to my feet in one rough motion.
I gasp and claw at the air. My legs dangle uselessly as I’m lifted like I weigh nothing. My scalp burns when I’m spun around to find myself staring into the face of a nightmare.
The man is a huge wall of muscle with a thick beard and dead, shark-like eyes.
“I got a woman here.” He murmurs after clicking a button on his ear.
“HEEELP!” I scream, thrashing against his hold.
“Callarse la boca,” he grunts, slamming me against the wall, the impact rattling my teeth. Pedro goes wild, barking at the man’s heavy boots, so the man kicks him hard, sending him yelping into the corner.
“No!” I cry.
“Caucasian, brown eyes, pretty face,” he reports to the earpiece. “Package secured.”
Package?
He leans in. His face is inches from mine, smelling of stale tobacco and beer.
“Say your name,” he growls.
“Fuck you!” I spit on his face.
He smiles, revealing a gold-capped tooth.
“Don’t dare me, Princesa. Say your name, or I’ll fuck you right here next to your brother’s corpse.”
My eyes widen at the threat, and terror floods me.
I’m going to die tonight.
“Say it!” He tightens his grip on my neck, cutting off my air until black spots dance in my vision.
“K-Kat... Katarina!” I gasp.
“Katarina,” he repeats. When someone in his earpiece responds, he lets my neck go, and I start coughing from the gasp of air. He leers into my eyes, then my mouth, and finally down my chest before he licks his own lips in a maniacal gesture.
"There, there, good girl. Now, keep it quiet, do as I say, and we’ll have no problem.
You understand me?” he warns, pulling out what seem like zip-ties from his back pocket.
Then he spins me around, hitting my face on the wall so hard it cuts my eyebrow, and I feel blood drip down my face like tears.
He secures my wrists with the zip tie, pulling it so tight it cuts into my skin.
After, he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of me, then of Mateo on the floor.
“Proof of acquisition is sent,” he mutters into his earpiece again.
“Please, let me go.” I plead.
He ignores me and covers my mouth with a cloth, tying it behind my head. Then, with a grip that is tight enough to break my arm, he hauls me away from the wall and pushes me out the door.
I trip, collapsing to the ground, but he doesn't release me. Instead, he yanks me up by my arm and shoves me forward like a worthless rag doll. My eyes dart around frantically as I desperately try to devise an escape.
I know if he succeeds in taking me, it’s over.
Mateo’s first lesson during our self-defense class rings in my head.
“Do not give them a chance to take you. If you do, you’re already dead.”
Immediately, I start looking for any weapon I can grab. But my hands are bound behind me, in front of the monster; it won’t work.
I think again. Then I remember, in one of Mateo’s lessons, he showed me how to escape an attacker from behind. The memory comes to mind so clearly that it almost feels like we were back in Mateo’s gym.
It’s my only chance, and he won’t expect me to try. He thinks I’m a helpless woman. He thinks I’m too scared.
I close my eyes, bracing myself for the impact, before I stop in my tracks and drive my head back as hard as I can, hitting his face. The impact shocks him, and he lets go of my arms.
I bolt.
When I look back, I can see him with both hands on his face, trying to stop the fountain of blood on his nose. The back of my head stings, but I ignore the pain and run towards my room.
Mateo’s second lesson: find a weapon.
He always kept a handgun in my nightstand, saying, “You never know when you need it.”
As soon as I’m in the room, I slam the door shut and lock it. I push my vanity behind the door, knowing the lock won’t be enough.
Then I drop to the floor, tucking my knees to my chest. I strain, forcing my bound wrists down past my hips and under my legs, stretching my shoulders to the breaking point, but I push forward.
Snap.
I feel something pop in my right shoulder, and I wince. With my hands in front now, I’m able to remove the cloth from my mouth. Then, I scramble to the nightstand and rip open the drawer—my fingers close around the cold grip of the Glock in no time. I rack the slide.
BANG!
The bedroom door splinters as the man kicks it. The first kick is enough to destroy the lock. Then comes the second kick.
BANG!!
He kicks again, and this time the vanity table topples over. As he steps into the room, blood pouring from his broken nose, his eyes murderous.
“You little bitch,” he snarls. “You just made this very painful for you.”
I raise the gun with both hands and don't hesitate.
POW-POW!
The recoil jars my shoulders as I shoot.
Twice.
The man grunts before clutching his chest and dropping to one knee. I don’t wait to see if he’s dead.
I run to my balcony and climb over the railing that connects to Mateo’s balcony next door. I run through his room and back out into the hallway.
I can’t leave him behind.
I run to his office and drop to my knees, "Mateo!"
His eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused.
“Get… out of here. Run…” he wheezes, blood dripping past his lips.
“Come with me!” I sob.
“No, you run, take your car, and your gun. Run, and don’t look back.” He coughs.
“No! Please,” I try to pull him up from the floor, but even with all the adrenaline, I don’t have enough strength.
“I’m not going to make it far, go! Remember what I taught you. You know how to protect yourself.”
“I’m not going to leave you! Let’s go, Mateo, please let’s go.” I shake my head and try to lift him once more. But he’s heavy and weak.
“Damiano-” he coughs again, and more blood comes out.
“What?” I ask, but before he can answer, I hear the man’s voice again.
“You’re fucking done now, you fucking bitch.” I try to reach for my gun, but Mateo is already pointing it at the man.
POP!
POP!
The room turns black and white.
“Mateo?” I reach for his face.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. When I look down, another hole on his side is oozing blood.
“Leave,” he whispers before his eyes close, and his grip on me loosens.
No.
I wait for the sob, the scream, the cry, or the stab on my chest that finally breaks me apart. I wait for a gunshot that would kill me, but nothing comes.
When I look up, the man is kneeling before us. He stares in my direction, but his eyes are nowhere to be found. His forehead is nothing but a crimson hole.
His body falls limp on the floor; he’s dead.
I kneel there, frozen in shock.
Mateo.
This is not real.
The only thing that brought me back to my senses was a loud bang as the front door flew open. I grab the gun from the floor and crawl behind the curtains of the balcony doors to hide. Just then, I hear a man curse and a radio turning on.
Lights sweep the room. Men in tactical gear flood in. I start to crawl out, thinking help is here, but then I hear a voice coming from one of the officers.
“Leon is dead! The target is dead too. Where is the girl? Find her!”
That monster was with them.
“She’s here!” Cold panic floods my veins. One guy shouts before locking eyes with me as I crouch.
I scramble backward, sliding on Mateo’s blood.
When he lunges at me, I run.
I jump over the railing of the connecting balcony that leads straight to my office.
I hear men shouting and boots running after me, but I don’t stop.
I go through the kitchen and out the service door.
I take the fire exit, taking three steps at a time.
By the time I reach the basement level, my lungs are burning.
I burst into the garage and thank God I put the key fob in my jeans’ pocket earlier. The door unlocks when I click the button on the door handle, and I throw myself inside, locking the doors and pressing the start button simultaneously.
Just then, one man reaches my car and throws himself on top of the trunk, hitting the rear glass with his gun, trying to break in.
I step on the gas, the car speeding in reverse as I pull out of the spot, sending him flying.
I maneuver towards the exit and hit two more men before the car roars out of the garage, smashing through the wooden arm of the gate.
I floor it, trying to put as much distance as possible between the building and me.
When I look up at the rearview mirror, there’s no one following me anymore.
I got away.
I survived.
I step on the pedal nonetheless, driving like a maniac. Aimlessly until I see the sign pointing to Palermo.
Then I am reminded of Mateo’s last word.
Damiano.
Did he want me to go to him?
Or did he mean run away from him?
Only one way to find out