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.
