I closed my eyes, jaw tight.
“Good.Because whoever took her needs to be traced, located, and destroyed.”
Gianni whistled under his breath.“So it’s going to be one of those nights.”
“It’s going to be worse than that.”
His jaw tightened when we stepped inside the house.
“What the hell happened here?”he muttered.
20
Neve
Iwoke to pain.
A deep, throbbing, ugly pain pulsed through my cheek, my ribs, my jaw.My eyelids felt glued shut.My head was heavy.My mouth tasted like copper and dirt.
Something cold bit into my wrists.
I tried to shift, but I couldn’t.
My arms were wrenched above my head, stretched until my shoulders burned.Rough rope cut into my wrists, binding me to a metal railing that groaned every time I moved.My legs were zip-tied at the ankles and lifted off the ground, leaving me suspended in a helpless, dangling sway—an object, not a person.
I rocked gently with every breath, every twitch, every involuntary tremor.There was no control left in my body; the sway wasn’t mine to stop.
The earth smelt damp, old mold creeping through the walls.The air reeked of gasoline.It clung to the back of my throat and made every inhale feel polluted.
Somewhere in the darkness, far enough to be out of reach but close enough to burrow under my skin, water dripped.A slow, jagged, rhythmic beat that ground into my nerves like a reminder I wasn’t alone, even when no one else was speaking.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Each fall of water felt like another second I didn’t have.
I forced my eyes open, dragging them through the burn.
A dim bulb dangled above me, swinging on a frayed wire.The light flickered on, off, on again, casting the world in jerky snapshots that made everything feel unreal.
I was in a warehouse.Or a basement.Or some sick blend of both—concrete floors slick with grime, metal beams overhead, rust peeling down the supports like old, corrugated blood.Shadows bred in every corner.
Footsteps echoed toward me—slow, measured, unhurried.
A man stepped inside.No, he filled the doorway.
He was massive.Older.A wall of muscle with a thick neck and a face that looked like it had been broken more times than it had smiled.He looked Russian, but I could be mistaken.
His head was shaved, scalp gleaming under the bulb’s stutter.
And his face… his face was a storm.Rage so raw and fresh it looked wet, like it was still bleeding out of him.And that rage was aimed at me.
His eyes swept over me—slow, assessing, stripping me down to bone.He looked like he wanted to peel my skin off.
He stopped in front of me, breathing hard.