Hooded. Cuffed. Blind.
The world reduced to sound and sensation.
Every turn of the wheels. Every shift in acceleration.
Every vibration beneath the tires.
My mind fractured—splitting between possibilities.
Or could it be Ruslan Baranov’s men?
Had he finally caught me?
That would be the worst—five years of running, evading his men, all in vain.
Ruslan Baranov didn’t forgive.
He didn’t forget.
Whatever vendetta he had carried for years, he would unleash it fully—and I would pay in the most unimaginable ways.
Or could it be Vincenzo himself, my estranged husband?
Whoever it was—the Spanish, the Russians, or Vincenzo—the punishment awaiting me would make hell itself look tame.
The car swayed through the turns, the motion sharp and uneven beneath me.
Tires hummed against asphalt, then shifted—rougher now, the sound vibrating through the floor into my bones.
Time lost meaning inside that hood.
Ten minutes?
Thirty?
An hour?
Each second stretched, feeding the panic coiling tighter in my chest.
My shoulders ached where the cuffs forced my arms behind me.
The metal bit into my wrists with every subtle movement, grinding skin raw.
Heat built beneath the hood, suffocating and thick, sweat gathering at my temples and slipping down into my eyes.
It burned.
Stung.
I clenched my jaw.
Forced my breathing into something controlled.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Slow. Measured.
