Chapter Two
Ilona
The car’s leather seat feels cold against my back, expensive material that should mean comfort but instead amplifies my terror.
Every bump in the road jolts through my spine, each one a reminder that I’m trapped, helpless, at the mercy of faceless men who murmur in the front seats beyond the partition.
My wrists burn where the zip ties cut into my skin.
The cotton stuffed in my mouth tastes like dust and sweat, making every breath feel stolen.
But it’s the blindfold that terrifies me most— thick fabric that turns my world into nothing but sound and sensation and the wild hammering of my own heart.
Calm down, Ilona.
Think.
There has to be a way out of this.
Through the partition, fragments of conversation drift back to me. Words I can’t quite make out, but the tone is clear— impatient, agitated. One voice rises above the others: “…should have been easier…” Another responds with something harsh that makes the man beside me shift restlessly.
They’re arguing.
That’s good, right?
Distracted people make mistakes.
The man next to me— my silent guardian of terror— breathes through his mouth in wet, raspy pulls. I can smell cigarettes on his clothes, something metallic that makes my stomach clench. When he moves, his jacket rustles. When he’s still, the air feels thick with violent potential.
“…boss won’t like delays…” drifts through the partition, followed by more heated discussion. My blood turns to ice water.
Boss.
Are they talking about Osip? The man whose bed I’ve been sharing, whose child I’m carrying?
No.
Not Osip.
He wouldn’t do this to me.
But doubt creeps through my chest. How much do I really know about him? He owns a restaurant that materialized from nothing, drives cars worth more than most people’s houses, and sometimes his eyes go flat and empty in a way that makes my skin prickle with primitive warning.
Stop it.
You’re panicking.
Focus on getting out of here shomehow.
The car lurches suddenly, throwing me against the door. Brakes screech. Someone up front curses: “What the fuck is this?”
Something’s wrong.
This wasn’t planned.
Through the partition, I hear car doors slamming. Raised voices outside, but muffled. The engine idles roughly, vibrating through the seat and into my bones.
The shadow beside me stands abruptly, the car rocking slightly under his weight. “You fucking stay where you are. Understood?” His voice is rough, accented, directed at me like a threat. Then the door opens and slams shut, leaving me alone.
This could be it.
My only chance.
Do something, Ilona!
My bound hands are behind my back, but the hasty way they tied my feet gives me hope. The tape around my sneakers feels loose, rushed. If I can just work my feet free—
Come on, come on…
I struggle against the restraints, using the car’s slight movements to help slide my feet within the loosened shoes. The tape pulls at my skin, but gradually gives way. Then, it happens. My left foot slips free, then my right. The tape clings to my sneakers, but my bare feet are free.
Yes!
Now my hands.
Think, girl!
The zip ties are plastic— if I can find something sharp…
But there’s nothing in reach except my backpack, thrown carelessly onto the floor.
I twist my body, ignoring the burning pain in my shoulders as I try to bring my bound wrists under and around to my front.
The zip ties cut deeper with every movement, warm wetness telling me I’m bleeding, but I don’t stop.
Almost there.
Just a little more…
Finally, my hands come around to my front. Still bound, but I can see them now, can work with them. The blindfold has shifted during my struggles, and I can see slivers of light beneath the fabric edge.
The blindfold.
Get it off.
You need to see.
I hook my zip-tied hands under the fabric and pull upward. The blindfold catches on my hair, pulls painfully, but eventually slides over my head. Suddenly, I can see— the car’s dark interior, tinted windows, my backpack within reach.
My hands.
How do I get these off?
The zip ties are tight, cutting circulation. But they’re also cheap plastic, not the military-grade restraints professionals would use. I bring my wrists to my mouth and bite at the thin plastic, trying to find a weak point.
There!
A little gap where the zip tie overlaps.
I work at it with my teeth, sawing back and forth until the plastic begins to fray. It takes precious seconds— seconds I might not have— but then, the tie finally snaps. My hands are free.
I don’t waste another second. I grab my backpack and ease toward the door. Outside, the voices grow more heated. Something about security, about timing. Whatever obstacle they’ve encountered, it’s bought me precious moments.
The door.
Please don’t be locked from outside.
The handle gives under pressure— they hadn’t secured it. Through the crack, I see asphalt, other vehicles, the distant gleam of terminal buildings. Airport signs flash past in Hungarian and English: Liszt Ferenc International Airport.
I slip out and run.
Don’t look back.
Just run.
Run like your life depends on it— because it probably does.
My bare feet pound against the concrete, backpack thumping against my hip. Behind me, someone shouts: “Hey! The bitch is out!”
Shit!
Just keep going!
The terminal— get to the terminal!
More shouts ring out, but I don’t look back. Can’t look back. The terminal building grows larger with each desperate step, glass doors promising sanctuary and crowds and cameras that might keep bullets from flying.
Inside, the chaos of Liszt Ferenc Airport swallows me whole.
The terminal stretches endlessly ahead— polished floors reflecting harsh fluorescent lighting, massive windows letting in light from the runway, departure boards flickering with destinations in Hungarian and English.
Voices blend into a dozen different languages: German tourists arguing over gate numbers, business travelers barking into phones in rapid Hungarian, children whining in French while their parents drag wheeled suitcases behind them.
So many people.
Too many witnesses.
They can’t do anything to me here, can they?
I push through the crowd like a swimmer fighting a riptide. An elderly couple in matching tracksuits blocks my path, studying a crumpled map with confused expressions. I dodge around them, nearly colliding with a food cart vendor hawking overpriced sandwiches to weary travelers.
Ask someone for help.
Flag down security.
Find a police officer.
The thoughts scream through my mind, but my feet keep moving toward the departure gates instead.
That businessman there— tall, authoritative, speaking English into his phone— he looks like someone who could help.
Or the airport employee behind the information desk, her crisp uniform and professional smile suggesting competence, safety.
But what if I approach them and suddenly there’s gunfire?
What if these men are watching, waiting, ready to eliminate witnesses along with their target?
The image flashes through my mind— innocent bystanders caught in crossfire because I was too selfish to handle this alone.
And worse— what if these kidnappers really are connected to Osip?
What if his influence extends into the very authorities I’d trust to protect me?
I’ve seen the way he commands rooms without saying a word, the way people defer to him with a mixture of respect and fear. If he wanted someone taken, if he wanted me silenced or “disappeared,” would a uniform really matter?
No. I can’t risk involving anyone else. Can’t trust that help would actually come, or that it wouldn’t arrive with strings attached to the very man I’m running from. I must disappear and I must do it quickly.
Security cameras track my movement from every angle— black domes embedded in the ceiling like electronic eyes. Are they recording my escape, or are they feeding footage to people who want me found? The paranoia feels justified and insane simultaneously.
They’re watching.
Someone’s always watching.
I weave between travelers, using bodies as shields.
A family with three young children struggles with an overloaded baggage cart, the mother looking frazzled as one child breaks away to press his face against a window overlooking the tarmac.
A group of backpackers— university-aged, probably American based on their loud English and casual clothes— debates which overpriced airport restaurant to choose for dinner.
Normal people living normal lives, unaware that a kidnapping victim is passing inches from their elbows.
The departure gates loom ahead like salvation. My Boston flight— I dig the boarding pass from my pocket with shaking fingers, the paper damp with sweat and terror. Gate B14. “Final Call” flashes in stern red letters on the departure board overhead.
Please still be there.
Please don’t let me be too late.
“Please,” I gasp to the gate agent, voice hoarse. “I’m here. I need to get on that plane.”
She takes in my disheveled appearance— wild hair, tear-streaked face, bare feet— but scans my ticket without questions. Professional efficiency overriding curiosity.
The jet bridge feels like a tunnel to salvation. Every step puts more distance between me and the men who wanted to steal my life. By the time I stow my battered backpack into the overhead compartment and then collapse into my assigned seat, my entire body shakes with reaction.
“Holy shit,” I wheeze out. “Holy fucking shit!”
The middle-aged businessman in the seat beside me shoots me a disapproving look before turning his attention back to his tablet, studiously ignoring me. Good. I hope it stays that way.
I buckle my seatbelt and sink back into my chair, allowing myself to breathe for the first time since I got out of that vehicle.
Through the small window, I watch the terminal as the plane begins to taxi.
Every moment, I expect figures to emerge brandishing weapons.
For the plane to grind to a halt and be dragged off it.
And then, something happens. For a split second, I see a figure standing near the windows— tall, dark-haired, perfectly still while chaos moves around him. Even from this distance, something about his posture, the set of his shoulders, sends recognition shooting through me like lightning.
Stanley?
Again?
How the hell…
“No!” I choke.
It can’t be. It’s impossible. But as the plane turns toward the runway, I’m certain it was him. Stanley Morrison, my ex-boyfriend, the man I left back in Boston. Standing in Budapest Airport on the exact day someone tried to kidnap me.
The coincidence feels too sharp, too deliberate to be random.
The plane lifts off, carrying me away from Hungary and whatever web of danger I’d stumbled into.
Below, the Danube curves through Budapest like a silver ribbon, the Parliament building’s Gothic spires growing smaller until they disappear entirely.
But even as the familiar landscape falls away beneath clouds, my thoughts drift to Osip.
Despite everything— the questions, the fear, the terrible possibility that he’s involved— part of me aches to leave him behind.
I love him. The admission comes unbidden, unwanted, but undeniable. I love the man who turned my world upside down.
And I’m carrying his child. Still carrying his child. Dr. Varga’s words echo in my mind— the impossible miracle that defied my endometriosis, that grew from our desperate need for each other. The baby of the man who might have orchestrated my kidnapping.
The baby of the man who killed my father.
The irony is so sharp it cuts. But as Hungary disappears beneath us, I know with crystalline certainty that whatever grows inside me, whatever truth waits in Boston, I’ll protect this child with everything I have.
Even from its own father, if necessary.
Even from the only man who’s ever made me feel complete.