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The train begins to head out, pulling me away from the life I've come to know, and my gaze lingers on the landscape scrolling past my window. With each passing mile, I replay our last kiss in my mind, cling to the sound of his voice, and hope that the skies over Helsinki will sing soon. As the train picks up speed, I glance once more toward the platform, toward my husband standing amongst the crowd. There's a warmth in his smile that reaches across the distance and wraps around me like a blanket. He raises a hand to his heart, a silent message that's loud and clear in its simplicity, "You're here, with me."
The city's stern architecture gives way to the sprawling countryside, where the early morning mist clings to the ground like a shroud. Thoughts of my sister, Helena, weave their way through my mind, mingling with worry and hope. I pray she's safe, that the wound was as minor as they said, and that she's recovering, surrounded by caregivers.
My thoughts drift back to Damien, the man who's come to mean so much to me in such a short time. It's a strange feeling—wanting to be with someone so badly yet understanding that your absence is a shield for them. My heart aches with the contradiction of it all. A fanciful part of me, one that I usually keep shackled by reason, indulges in a little daydream where Damien comes chasing after the train, his determination unfettered by logic or danger.
I imagine him, a hero out of a storybook, bursting through the doors, sweeping me into his arms, and declaring that we'll face whatever comes together. It's foolish, of course, a childish fantasy, but in the quiet of the train compartment, with no one to see my blushes, I let the daydream play out, allowing it to comfort me.
The train continues, stealing me further from him, but that last image of Damien, his hand on his heart, that smile on his lips, is etched into my memory. It's a silent promise that no distance can diminish what we've created. And with that image to cling to, I let the tempo of the train lull me into a restless slumber, where dreams of what might be chase away the shadows of fear and loneliness, my guard unwittingly slipping in the solace of motion. But it's a fragile peace, shattered too soon.
I blink awake to find my solitude invaded; three suited figures now occupy the seats nearby. A frigid thread of alarm weaves through me, tightening around my chest with each breath. They are distinctly out of place, their sharp attire and demeanor a stark contrast to the weary travelers boarding a morning train.
My instincts scream, every sense heightening, as I take in their foreign aspect, their eyes too keen, too aware. The one closest to me shifts, and the light glints off something metallic tucked in his jacket—a gun, slightly hidden but articulate in its threat. My heart hammers, adrenaline surging, yet I force a mask of calm over my features.
One of the men makes a subtle gesture, a silent command to an unseen accomplice. A moment later, the shrill alarm of the emergency stop pierces the air. The train lurches, a beast wounded mid-stride, groaning to a standstill that sends a wave of panic down the aisle.
In the chaos of sudden deceleration, they move with predatory precision. I know I'm their target, isolated and vulnerable. I mentally curse myself for not paying attention to the quiet intuition that told me something was amiss mere moments ago. The men close in, and I realize with a sinking heart that they must be from the Turkish mafia, seeking retribution for the recent events that unfolded or perhaps a continuation of this unseen war.
There's no time to cry for help, no chance to reach out. The pistol is a silent promise of violence, and the men's eyes are cold and calculating. I'm on my own, and the survival lessons Damien indirectly imparted are now my only hope. As the train halts completely, the men stand, and with one swift motion, I'm wrenched from my seat, a firm grip on my arm as they steer me down the aisle.
The cabin door slides open to the chorus of disturbed passengers and the conductor's urgent inquiries. I'm led out onto the gravel-strewn ground, the chill of the morning air a sharp bite compared to the warmth I'd felt in Damien's embrace just hours before. The reality of my situation cuts through me—kidnapped, alone, and in the hands of an enemy with unknown intentions.
Fear grips me as we move away from the train, but beneath it, a flame of defiance flickers. I am Mariya Tarasova-Sidorova. I am not a damsel in distress but a woman who's learned from the toughest. They may have taken me by surprise, but I won't go quietly into the darkness of their vendetta. I'll hold on to Damien's promise, the image of his hand on his heart, and fight my way back to him—no matter the cost.
Chapter 23
Mariya
People swarm the station, their attention drawn to the sudden halt of the train, their confusion a perfect cover for my abduction. The gun digging into my back is an icy assurance that I won’t scream as I’m led away.
Their voices rise above the clamor of the station, leaving no doubt in my mind—they're Turkish, the very men Damien has been warring with. A shiver of dread runs through me. What could they possibly want with me? A bargaining chip? Revenge? My heart races as I realize the gravity of the situation, the peril I'm in because of my association with Damien.
I rack my brain, trying to translate any useful phrases, anything that might aid me in this moment, but fear clouds my thoughts. They wouldn’t have taken me without a plan, and I can only hope that Damien will find me before their plan unfolds.
As they bundle me into a vehicle, the world outside becomes a streak of colors, the sounds fading as the door slams shut. I'm left in silence, the muffled roar of an engine, my only companion. My mind races with thoughts of escape, of survival, but above all else, of Damien. His face, his touch, the promise of his kiss—it all feels like a distant memory now, snatched away by cruel fate.
The vehicle's interior is a claustrophobic space, reeking of tobacco and fear. As it speeds away, my thoughts scatter in a hundred different directions, each more frightening than the last. I have to devise a plan, a strategy, to keep myself safe and alive until Damien finds me.
When the vehicle finally comes to a stop, I'm dragged out into a world that feels entirely alien. The village is a grey smudge against the twilight, a place long forgotten. The office into which I'm callously pushed is equally desolate. The walls are peeling, and the air is thick with the stench of desperation.
A man sits there like a statue. His eyes are fixed on me as if I embody every loss he’s ever experienced. He introduces himself as Ahmet Sahin, and my blood runs cold. "Mrs. Sidorova," he begins, his voice deceptively calm. "I see you’ve found yourself in an unfortunate position."
I sit up straight despite the fear clawing at my insides. "I don't know what you think Damien's done, but you're wrong," I assert, my voice stronger than I feel.
Ahmet's lips twist into a mirthless smile. "Your Damien set a trap that killed my men. Good men."
"No," I shake my head fervently. "He wouldn't. There's been a mistake."
"A mistake?" He scoffs. "Is that what we're calling bombs these days?"
"I..." My voice falters, but I press on. "He was almost killed by that bomb himself. Why would he target you when he was trying to forge a deal?"
Ahmet leans back in his chair, appraising me. "You are his wife, yet you know little. His world is not for the faint of heart, and it seems you are caught in the crossfire."
"I know enough to tell you that you're making a mistake," I insist, my hands balling into fists. "Damien is not your enemy."
"Perhaps not by choice," Ahmet concedes. "But the result is the same. We cannot allow such an affront to go unanswered."
“So you plan to use me to get to him,” I state. He doesn't deny it. "An eye for an eye, Mrs. Sidorova. Your Damien will learn the price of crossing the Sahin family."
