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 feethit 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.
