Within minutes, we leave the safety of the estate premises, the dark SUV tearing down the driveway as we head toward the coffee shop.
Looking out the tinted window at the passing city streets, a quiet pang of longing hits my chest. I wish I could just sit down in a public coffee shop, completely normal and unbothered, and have breakfast with my sister. No guards, no armored cars, no threats lurking in the shadows. But this is the life I’ve been dealt now. I just have to live with it.
The driver pulls the heavy vehicle up to the curb right outside our usual spot, idling the engine. One of the guards looks back at me, gives a sharp nod, and steps out of the car to go inside and retrieve Camilla.
I watch the entrance of the shop, counting the seconds. But after five excruciating minutes, the guard comes back out, pulling the heavy SUV door open. He's alone.
"Ma'am, your sister is not there," he says, his brow furrowed as he scans the street. "I walked the entire floor. She's not inside."
My heart drops into my stomach. "This can't be true. She literally texted me that she was already here waiting."
The guard looks at the driver, the air in the car instantly turning thick with professional suspicion. "Let me check the back patio and the restrooms," the man says grimly, checking the hidden holster under his jacket. "Stay in the vehicle."
He closes the door, locking it from the outside, and heads back into the shop. I sit frozen in the leather seat, my hands gripping my purse as the silence in the SUV stretches on, the anxiety inside me growing heavier with every passing second.
The guard returns after another agonizing ten minutes. When he opens the door, his face is grim, and my heart plummets. He didn’t find her.
"Ma'am, we need to head back to the estate," the driver says, his voice tight as he shifts the car into gear.
"No," I say, a stubborn, terrified wave of adrenaline taking over. I stay firmly planted in the backseat, my voice rising. "I am not leaving without Camilla. She was here. I know she was here. She wouldn’t text me if she wasn’t.”
Another twenty minutes tick by like a slow torture. I sit there calling Camilla’s number over and over, several times in a row, but there is absolutely no answer. The ringing just cuts off to voicemail every single time. Something feels horribly, deeply wrong. The knot in my stomach tightens until I can barely breathe.
"I want to take a look too," I burst out, reaching for the door handle.
The guards instantly protest, their voices firm. "No, ma'am. Boss's orders. You stay in the vehicle."
"She’s my sister!" I yell, the panic finally breaking through my defenses. I am extremely worried, suffocating under the weight of my own fear. "What if she's hurt? Just let me look!"
Seeing that I am on the verge of hysteria and refusing to let the car move, they finally relent, unable to completely ignore my desperation. But they don't let me go alone—they all go with me.
I step out of the car, flanked tightly by the three heavily armed men. I walk down the sidewalk, my eyes scanning the busy street, desperately trying to convince myself not to panic, trying to find a flash of Camilla's hair or her jacket in the crowd. But with every step we take away from the armored SUV, a cold, suffocating unease crawls straight up my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Then, the attack comes fast.
Before my guards can properly react or even draw their weapons, a group of armed men move in from the shadows of a nearby alley like a pack of wolves. The ambush is perfectly timed, brutal, and coordinated.
My bodyguards fight back instantly, throwing themselves in front of me, but they are completely outnumbered and caught off guard. Heavy blows rain down, and within seconds, they are overwhelmed and knocked out cold.
I turn on my heel and try to run, my legs pumping beneath my sundress as I sprint back toward the car, but I don't even make it three steps. Rough, heavy hands clamp down on my arms, violently jerking me backward. I kick and scream, fighting with everything I have, but a thick cloth is shoved over my mouth, cutting off my air.
I am lifted entirely off my feet and forced into the back of a waiting cargo van. The heavy metal doors slam shut, plunging me into absolute darkness as the tires screech against the asphalt, tearing away into the city.
I slide against the cold floor of the van, the metallic smell of rust and old oil filling my nose. Trapped in the small, pitch-black space, the walls feel like they are actively closing in on me. The raw terror from my childhood—the memory of being locked in dark rooms by my father—surges to the surface, and the enclosed space threatens to send me into a full-blown panic attack. My chest tightens, and I can't get any air.
Breathe. Match me. Right now.
Alessandro's voice cuts through the rising noise in my head. I fight my ragged breathing, forcing myself to visualize his face from last night, the heavy, unyielding weight of his hands on my shoulders. I remember the way he told me to focus, to breathe, and to stay present. He told me I was safe, that his strength was mine.
Against my will, the memory acts as a solid anchor, pulling me back from the edge of hysteria. I force my lungs to expand, slowing my heart rate down as the van twists and turns through the city streets. I need to stay sharp. I need to stay alive.
When the van finally screeches to a halt, the doors are thrown open, and blinding light pours in. I am ruthlessly dragged out, a rough sack shoved over my head as they march me insidea building. When the sack is ripped off, the musty, damp air confirms where I am: an abandoned warehouse.
I blink against the dim light, my eyes darting over the armed men surrounding me. I recognize only one face among them. Pietro.
He steps forward, staring down at me with absolute, hate-filled eyes. The venom in his expression is palpable as he sneers, "You're a dead woman, Sienna. Your husband can't save you from this."
He laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes off the high rafters, and mocks me. "You actually fell for it. You walked right into the trap."
