Chapter 19 Liana
I should have left an hour ago, when the sun was still casting long shadows across the port and there were still people around.
The port is dark now, the sun long set behind the massive warehouses that line the waterfront.
Most of the workers have gone home to their families, their dinner tables, their normal lives.
Only a skeleton crew remains for the night shift, and they're on the other side of the sprawling complex, too far away to hear anything that might happen over here.
I'm alone in Warehouse Seven, finishing the inventory count that Antonio started this morning before he had to leave early for a family emergency.
He made an error in the numbers—nothing major, just a simple transposition that threw off an entire column, but enough that I need to correct it before tomorrow's meeting with Papa.
He doesn't tolerate mistakes, even small ones, and I've been working too hard to maintain my competence in his eyes to let something like this slide.
My phone sits on the scarred wooden desk beside me, its screen dark and silent. No texts from Santino. No calls. No attempts to reach out after the dinner last night.
Not that I expected any, not after how I've been acting toward him. Not after the distance I've deliberately created between us.
I finish the last column of numbers and save the corrected file on my tablet, triple-checking my work before closing it. I pack up my things, shouldering my leather bag and tucking my tablet under my arm.
The warehouse feels too big around me now, too empty. My footsteps echo against the concrete floor as I walk toward the exit, the sound of my shoes amplified in the cavernous space.
That's when I feel it—that prickly sensation on the back of my neck, the primitive warning system that evolution gave us. The one that says you're being watched. I stop walking and force myself to listen carefully, straining to hear anything beyond my own breathing.
Nothing. Just the sound of water lapping gently against the dock pilings. The distant hum of machinery from the active part of the port.
I'm being paranoid, letting my exhaustion and stress create threats where none exist.
I start walking again, faster now. My car is parked near the main gate. Less than a three-minute walk. I'll be fine.
I pull out my phone, activating the flashlight to illuminate my path. The dock lights are spaced too far apart, creating pools of darkness between each yellow circle of illumination. Budget cuts, Papa said. As if our family can't afford proper lighting.
Suddenly I spot movement near one of the shipping containers. My heart kicks up its rhythm, pounding against my ribs. I stop again, frozen in place.
"Hello?" My voice sounds small and uncertain in the vast darkness. "Is someone there?"
No answer comes back. Just silence and the lap of water against metal.
Just the shadow, now perfectly still.
I'm definitely being paranoid. It's probably just a worker taking a shortcut back to the active section. Or a cat. The port has dozens of stray cats that hunt the rats at night.
I keep walking, but I'm watching that shadow now, unable to look away from it completely. It moves again, paralleling my path. Following me.
Not a cat. Cats don't move like that.
I walk faster, my shoes clicking against the concrete too loudly, too obviously announcing my presence and position. I should have worn flats today. Should have left earlier. Should have asked someone to walk me to my car.
Another shadow appears ahead of me, directly between me and my car and safety. My breath catches in my throat, sharp and painful.
There are two of them. At least two, and probably more that I can't see yet.
I change direction immediately, heading toward the main office building instead. There are guards there, security cameras, people with guns who work for my father.
The shadows move with me, adjusting their positions. They're definitely following me now, not even bothering to hide it anymore.
I type a text frantically to Santino, my fingers clumsy on the screen: At the port. Being followed.
Hit send.
Behind me, I hear footsteps—heavy, fast, deliberate. Male footsteps. They're chasing me now, done with whatever game they were playing.
I break into a run, my bag banging awkwardly against my hip with every stride. My heels make it difficult to maintain speed, the stilettos catching on uneven concrete, but I don't dare stop to remove them.
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe, my lungs burning with effort and fear. I shove the phone back in my pocket and force myself to run harder.
The office building is just ahead. A man steps out from behind a shipping container, materializing directly in my path like something from a nightmare.
I skid to a stop, my heels sliding on the loose gravel.
He's big—broad shoulders, thick arms, the build of someone who's used to physical violence. Dark clothes that blend into the shadows. His face is partially shadowed, but I can see his smile clearly. It's not a pleasant expression.
"Liana Costa." His voice is calm, almost conversational. Almost friendly. "We need you to come with us."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." I back up, my mind racing through options. "I don't know who you are, but—"
Arms grab me from behind before I can finish the sentence, wrapping around my torso and pinning my arms.
I scream, the sound tearing from my throat. I twist violently, trying to break free, using every self-defense move I learned in those classes Papa insisted on.
"Let go of me!" I kick backward hard, my heel connecting solidly with someone's shin.
He grunts in pain but doesn't release his grip. If anything, he tightens it.
"Costa bitch!" He hisses the insult in my ear. "Stop fighting or this gets worse."
I don't stop. I can't stop. I claw at his arms, trying to reach the pepper spray in my bag, trying to find any weapon I can use.
The man in front of me moves closer, taking his time now that his partner has me secured. "We're not going to hurt you. Just come quietly and this will be easy for everyone."
"Fuck you!" I spit at him, the saliva landing on his cheek.
His smile disappears instantly, his expression going cold and dangerous. He nods to someone behind me, a single sharp gesture. Something presses against my ribs—cold, hard, unmistakable. The barrel of a gun.
I freeze completely, every muscle in my body going rigid.
"That's better." The first man's smile returns, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Now, let's go. Walk."
"Who are you? What do you want with me?"
"Not important right now. What's important is that you cooperate and don't make this harder than it needs to be."
They start pulling me backward, away from the office and its lights and its security. Away from any possible help.
Toward a dark van parked near the fence, nearly invisible in the shadows.
No, no, no.
Never let them take you to a second location. Easier said than done.
I try to scream again, drawing in breath to make as much noise as possible. A hand clamps over my mouth before I can make a sound, covering my nose too so I can barely breathe.
"None of that now."
I bite down hard on his palm, tasting blood and skin. He yanks his hand away with a curse. "Fuck!" He shakes his injured hand, blood dripping.
Someone hits me across the cheek. Not hard enough to knock me out, just enough to stun me. My head snaps to the side and my vision blurs. My ears ring with a high-pitched whine.
They drag me to the van while I'm disoriented. The back doors swing open with a metallic screech.
"No," I manage to say through the ringing in my ears. "Please—"
They throw me inside roughly. I hit the metal floor hard, pain shooting through my shoulder and hip. The breath leaves my lungs in a painful rush.
Before I can recover, before I can orient myself in the darkness, hands are on me again. Searching my pockets roughly.
"No—" I try to twist away, but there are too many hands.
They find my phone and yank it out of my pocket.
"Give that back!" My voice is desperate now, high and frightened.
My only connection to Santino is gone.
The doors slam shut with a finality and I’m enveloped in complete, absolute darkness. I hear the front doors open and close. The engine starts with a rumble I can feel through the metal floor.
We're moving.
I scramble to sit up, my hands searching frantically for something, anything useful in the darkness. A weapon. A tool. Anything.
Nothing. Just cold, empty metal floor.
My bag—where's my bag?
They must have taken it along with everything else. My pepper spray, my wallet, my ID. Everything.
The van turns sharply and I slide across the floor, hitting the side panel hard enough to bruise. I brace myself against the wall, trying to find some stability.
Panic claws at my throat like a living thing. I can't breathe properly. Can't think past the terror flooding my system.
Did Santino see my text before they took my phone? Will he come?
Or will he think it's another game, another manipulation in my long list of manipulations?
I've played too many games with him. Created so much chaos that when something real happens, when I actually need him desperately—
He might not come.
The van slows, then stops completely. My heart pounds even harder, if that's possible. Blood rushing in my ears.
I hear voices outside—men talking in low tones I can't quite make out. The back doors open suddenly, and I'm temporarily blinded by flashlight beams. Hands grab me before I can react, before I can even think about running. They pull me out of the van roughly.
We're in an industrial area, surrounded by abandoned warehouses that look like they haven't been used in years. No lights except the van's headlights cutting through the darkness. No sounds of traffic or people.
No one around to hear me scream.
"Inside," one of the men orders.
They drag me toward a building with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. The door is rusted, hanging half off its hinges. Inside, it's dark and smells like oil and decay and things I don't want to identify. My heels catch on debris scattered across the floor.
They push me roughly into a chair—old, metal, cold enough that I can feel it through my clothes. Someone produces zip ties from their pocket, the plastic catching the light.
"No," I try to pull away, knowing what's coming. "Please don't—"
They zip-tie my wrists behind the chair. Then my ankles to the chair legs. The plastic bites into my skin, tight enough to cut off circulation.
I'm trapped completely now, helpless.
One of the men—the one I bit—stands in front of me, close enough that I can see his face clearly now. His hand is wrapped in a cloth, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage.
"You're going to regret that," he says quietly, his tone promising violence.
"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" I force the words out past the fear constricting my throat.
"You'll find out soon enough." He looks at the others, gesturing toward the door. "Let's go. Give her some time to think about her situation."
They all walk out, their footsteps echoing in the empty warehouse. The door slams shut behind them, and I hear the sound of a lock engaging.
Then—silence.
Complete, terrifying silence.
I sit there in the darkness, alone with my racing thoughts and the pain in my wrists. Minutes stretch into what feels like several hours. My shoulders ache from the awkward angle. My wrists throb where the zip ties cut into skin.
I lose track of time completely.
Finally, I hear voices outside. The lock disengages. The door opens.
They file back in, and one of them is on his phone, just ending a call.
"It's done. He's been contacted," he says, pocketing his phone with a satisfied expression.
"Marcello?"
"Yes. He'll come. Eventually."
Santino. They contacted Santino, not my father.
Relief floods through me, sharp and sudden and overwhelming.
"How long before he gets here?" one of the men asks.
The leader shrugs casually. "Could be hours. Could be tomorrow morning. Depends how seriously he takes the threat."
"And if he doesn't take it seriously?"
"Then we make it serious." He looks directly at me when he says it, his meaning crystal clear.
The relief vanishes instantly, replaced by cold, sharp fear.
What if he doesn't come? What if the last thing I ever said to him was something dismissive and cold?
"I need to use the bathroom," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. It comes out small and scared anyway.
Let them think I'm terrified and weak. Let them underestimate me.
I am terrified. But I'm also Dominic Costa's daughter.
And I didn't spend twelve years learning this business, learning how to survive in this world, to die in an abandoned warehouse without fighting back.
"You can wait," the leader says dismissively.
They move away from me, clustering by the door in a loose group. Their voices drop to a murmur I can't quite make out.
I test the zip ties carefully, trying not to draw attention. They're tight—professionally done, the way someone with experience would secure a prisoner.
But my wrists are small, and I'm flexible from years of yoga classes.
I start working my hands slowly, carefully, trying to compress my thumb to slip it through. The plastic digs into my skin, cutting. I can feel warm blood starting to trickle down my palms.
I bite my lip hard to keep from making any noise that would alert them.
If I can just get one hand free, just create enough space—
"Stop moving," one of the men barks suddenly.
I freeze completely.
He walks over, checking the zip ties with rough hands. Then he tightens them even more. Pain shoots through my wrists, white-hot and immediate.
"Try that again and I'll break your fingers," he says conversationally, like he's discussing the weather. "Understand?"
I nod mutely.
He walks back to his position by the door, satisfied.
I sit very still, breathing through the pain radiating from my wrists, blinking back tears I refuse to shed in front of them.
Okay. New plan.
I need to wait. Be patient. Watch for an opening, any opening.
They'll have to move me eventually. Or untie me for something. Or make a mistake.
And when they do, I'll be ready.
I close my eyes and let myself think about Santino for just a moment. Please come, I think desperately.
Time passes in the darkness—I don't know how long. Without my phone or any windows, I've lost all sense of time.
The men take turns watching me. One steps outside to smoke, the smell of cigarettes drifting back in. Another makes a phone call, his voice too low to hear clearly.
I wait.
And I hope that this time, when I need him most, when it actually matters, he'll believe me.
Even though I've given him every reason not to.