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?"
