Chapter 32 Evi
EVI
Something wakes me. At first, it’s faint—the soft drag of a foot across carpet, so quiet it almost blends into the hum of the furnace. My body stills. My heart ticks faster, straining in my chest. The house is dark, silent, and heavy with sleep.
Then I hear it again—movement, deliberate and slow.
I sit up, the sheet slipping down my chest. “Sandro?” My voice comes out on a whisper.
No answer.
For a second, I think maybe I imagined it. But then—there. A shadow crouches at the end of the bed. Not standing. Waiting.
My breath catches in my throat as a chill races down my spine. “Who’s there?”
The shadow moves, quick and low, the gleam of metal catching faint moonlight. My panic spikes as I realize it’s a knife, the edge curved and cruel.
I launch off the bed, the sheet tangling around my legs, and my hip slams into the nightstand. The lamp topples, crashing to the floor.
I’m already running.
The door’s half open, and I yank it wider, bursting into the hall. The metallic scent hits me first. Iron. Blood. One of Sandro’s guards is on the ground, his throat cut clean through, his body twisted unnaturally. Another lies facedown near the stairwell, a dark pool spreading beneath him.
I freeze, every instinct screaming to move, but my brain can’t catch up. This isn’t possible. This house is a fortress. There are men stationed at every entry. Except now, there aren’t.
A hand grabs my arm from behind, and I thrash, nails raking skin, but he’s stronger—bigger. His hand clamps over my mouth before I can scream.
“Quiet,” a man hisses in richly accented English. “You scream, you die.”
The tip of his blade presses against my throat, and my breath locks as suddenly, all I can think about is my unborn child. If I die, so does my baby. And that thought alone fills me with the urge to comply.
Feeling my sudden lack of resistance, the man wrenches my arms behind me. Plastic bites into my wrists as he cinches the zip tie tight, cutting off circulation. Another man takes my ankles, binding them together. Then a blindfold slides over my eyes, plunging me into darkness.
A scream catches in my throat as my body jerks momentarily airborne.
I struggle and squirm, but they move with mechanical precision as they lift me—slinging me over a shoulder to be carried like luggage.
The smell of sweat and gun oil fills my lungs, and my heart flutters as I pray the man’s shoulder digging into my stomach won’t hurt my child.
We move quickly. Down stairs. Through a door. Out into cold air that hits my skin like knives. A van door slides open. I’m tossed inside, relieved momentarily of the bitter cold, but that’s when I start to tremble with fear.
The engine growls to life, the floor vibrating beneath me.
My breath comes in shallow, shaking pulls.
Every time I shift, the plastic digs deeper into my wrists and ankles.
I bite down on panic, hard. Crying won’t help.
Begging won’t help. I need to think. But all I can picture is Sandro.
Still out there. Unaware that his home—his wife—has already been taken.
He’ll come for me, right?
It’s the only thought that keeps me from losing my mind.
The van jerks left, then right, accelerating, and I try to count the turns. I lose track after six. Time stretches. Minutes feel like hours. When we finally stop, my heart is hammering so hard it hurts.
The door slides open. Cold air floods in, and I feel the sharp edge of a knife against my ankle before my legs are cut free.
Then, before I have time to lash out, hands grab my upper arms—rough, unrelenting as they haul me from the van.
My bare feet hit gravel, and the blindfold shifts just enough for me to catch a faint glimmer of lanterns through the fabric.
Someone speaks in Japanese—sharp, commanding. The air smells faintly of pine and incense. We must be somewhere remote.
The ground changes from gravel to smooth stone as they steer me forward blindly, keeping me on my feet anytime I stumble. A door opens. I’m pushed inside, and the air turns warm, scented with cedar and sandalwood.
Another door. Silence, then the slow sound of footsteps.
The blindfold is yanked away, and my eyes sting under the sudden light.
I blink—and freeze. Kenji Tanaka stands before me, his one onyx eye hollow, as if no soul lurks within.
He’s in a dark suit, tie loosened, hair slicked back with the kind of precision that makes him look almost civilized.
Almost—if not for the eyepatch that hints at his history of violence.
“Mrs. Chiaroscuro,” he says, his accented English smooth, polished. “Or may I call you Evi?”
My mouth goes dry.
He’s studying me like a painting, his gaze roaming from my face down to my bare legs—still in my nightdress—then back up again. His smile is faint. “So this is the woman Sandro took as his bride.”
My stomach twists.
He takes a step closer, his shoes whispering against the wood floor. The room around us is beautiful—traditional Japanese architecture, low lighting, clean lines and pale wood. Frosted-glass walls mimic the more traditional paper panels.
Somehow, the serenity makes it worse.
A predator doesn’t need chaos. It needs control.
Kenji stops just in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—sharp, citrus and smoke.
“I can see why he’d want you,” he murmurs. “A pity, really. You deserve so much more than a brute like him.”
I don’t answer. My pulse roars in my ears.
Kenji’s gaze sharpens. “Do you know what your husband did tonight?”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just shake my head.
“He came for me,” Kenji says. “For my family. He thought he could destroy us, wipe us out while we slept.” He leans closer, his smile fading. “He failed.”
I try to breathe, but the air sticks in my throat.
“You should be grateful,” he continues. “I could have left you to the dogs. Instead, I brought you here. To witness the consequences of his arrogance.”
He reaches out suddenly, brushing his fingers along a strand of my hair. I flinch, but he only laughs softly.
“Such beauty,” he says. “Such fragility. I wonder if Sandro ever realized how easily something so precious can break.”
I force my chin up, even though I’m shaking. “Kill me if you must,” I whisper, calling his bluff and praying I haven’t overplayed my hand. “It won’t change who he is.”
His eyes glint with amusement. “Oh, you think so, do you? I suspect otherwise. But don’t worry, I don’t intend to kill you. Not yet.”
My breath catches.
Kenji tilts his head, studying me as if I’m an equation to be solved. “You’ll serve a purpose. Pain is a useful tool, you see. Especially when it’s inflicted upon the one thing a man cannot bear to lose.”
He snaps his fingers, and two men step forward.
“Take her downstairs,” he says. “Put her with… the other prisoner.”
The other prisoner. My blood turns to ice.
Before I can process it, rough hands seize my arms once more. One man grips my shoulder hard enough to bruise, the other shoving me forward.
Kenji’s voice follows, low and smooth. “Do try not to die too quickly, Evi. The night is young.”
They drag me through the house, down a hall lined with rich, gold-laced paintings and tatami mats, then to a narrow stairway that descends into cold, damp air. The scent of mold and iron grows stronger with each step. My bare feet slip on the slick stone, and one of the men jerks me upright.
“Move,” he snaps, shoving me roughly down the last few stairs.
We reach a thick wooden door, and a guard unlocks it, the hinges groaning. A single bulb swings from the ceiling beyond, casting dim yellow light across concrete walls and, in the corner, a single cell.
My stomach knots tighter as they drag me toward it.
Inside, someone sits in the shadows—broad-shouldered, head bowed, as still as a statue.
I can’t make out his face, but he looks enormous.
Dangerous. And all I can think about is what he might do to me if they put me in there with him.
Again, my thoughts flit wildly to my baby, to doing whatever I can to keep it safe, and I freeze.
“No,” I whisper, trying to back up, but the guards shove me forward—even as the prisoner’s head snaps up.
“Welcome home,” one of Kenji’s men mutters, laughing under his breath as he releases me to unlock the cell.
The figure in the shadows shifts, chains clinking as he rises.
And the dim light catches on his face—just enough for me to see the bruises, the split lip, the dark stubble along his jaw.
My heart lurches.
“Sandro,” I breathe.
He steps forward, slow, disbelieving, as his eyes find mine. For a long, terrible moment, neither of us moves. All the air seems to leave the room at once as I realize I’m not the bait. I’m the leverage.
I’d thought he might come for me—I’d prayed he would. I wanted to believe that, no matter what had happened between us, Sandro would find a way. But now I see him—chained, bloodied, trapped—and the truth hits me like a physical blow.
He’s not coming to save me.
He’s already been caught.
Which means I’m as good as dead.