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“Sure thing, Boss,” Rico responds, then a saddened looks washes over his face. “But we have to prepare the men… for… you know it’s possible.”
I know what he’s thinking but I’m not ready to accept that Natalia spent her final days here. “She’s alive,” I growl, my voice holding a deep threat. “There has to be more signs she was here. We’re on the right track.”
As I continue down the dark hallway, my grip tightens on my phone lighting the way. Each step is fueled by rage. I scan the surroundings for any other signs of her presence. The air grows heavier with my anticipation, mingling with the scent of musty decay that permeates this godforsaken place.
With each passing room, my frustration mounts. Empty spaces greet me, their silence mocking the desperate ache in my heart. But I refuse to give in to doubt – not yet. I remind myself how far we've come. Vinny's lead, then Luca's. And now her compact mirror. We're getting closer. She was here, and I'll tear this building apart if I have to, to find whatever other clues are around.
Rico's voice crackle through my earpiece, “Boss, we've set up just outside. Half of the guys are around the building or over in the woods, and the rest of the team is working each floor.”
"Good," I answer. I'll head up to the third floor."
I make my way up the few flights of stairs and press a hand against the wall as I notice a closed door in the corridor. My breaths come hard and heavy, matching the rapid thud in my chest.
Pushing the door open, I immediately sense something different about this room. A persistent sinister energy seems to seep through its cracks, urging me to push forward despite the warning it carries.
With a swift kick, I force open an interior closet door, revealing a decrepit room bathed in darkness. Ripped clothes and broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, covered in layers of dust, grime, and debris.
My eyes dart around, searching for any hint of her. And then, I see it – between the mess of clothes, a familiar cream and tan checkered Louis Vuitton bag. I don't know why, but I'm sure it's hers. Inching closer, I reach out and gently flip it over, emptying the contents.
Her things.
Her wallet, make-up, sunglasses and other girly things fall out. Every one of them I recognize. And in the practically empty wallet, the cash, ID and credit cards are gone but there's a picture inside of her and Nonna. And the change compartment has coins from Italy. There's no doubt that it's hers.
Natalia was definitely here. They fucking brought her here.
And she's gone now.
How long was she in this shithole?
Where the fuck did they take her?
Knowing we’re on the right track, it's just a matter of time that we'll find her.
9
Natalia
I’m walkingin the quaint heart of Taos, a town nestled in the rugged beauty of New Mexico, my mind wandering aimlessly, my thoughts a tangled web of memories and fears. The weight of constant anxiety has become my shadow in this culture-rich place. Taos, with its adobe buildings that stand as silent witnesses to centuries past, and its vibrant art scene that breathes life into the present, offers a brief escape from my troubled mind.
As I turn down a cobblestone side street, the sun-drenched adobe walls seem to whisper stories of their own. A small art gallery catches my eye with its unassuming charm. The window display shows off an eclectic mix of local artwork, each piece displaying the creative spirit that thrives in this place. But it's the sketching section of the window display that grabs hold of my attention, like a thread connecting me to a forgotten part of myself. There, on a table adorned with scattered charcoal pencils and well-worn sketchpads, lies the key to unlocking a passion I once shared with my mother.
I step inside the gallery with anticipation, the bell above the door chiming softly as if welcoming me into a world where colors and lines intertwine to create magic. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and aged wood, a heady mixture that transports me to another time. The walls are adorned with art pieces of various styles and mediums, each one possessing a unique voice and storytelling style.
The gallery owner, a woman with silver-streaked hair that flows to her shoulders like moonlight and eyes that sparkle with a mix of wisdom and mischief, greets me with a warm smile. Her melodic voice fills the air as she extends a welcoming hand. "Welcome," she says, her words inviting me to explore the wonders that lie within these walls. "Feel free to look around," she adds, gesturing toward the display shelves near the window.
I gravitate towards the sketching area, my fingers brushing over the textured paper of a sketchpad. It's been so long since I've indulged in the luxury of creating art, losing myself in the strokes of a pencil.
The owner's keen eyes follow my gaze and seem to gleam with admiration as I peruse the sketching materials on display. The shelves are lined with an array of vibrant paints, delicate pastels, and sleek graphite pencils. Memories flood back to me, of days spent hunched over a sketchpad, lost in the world of lines and colors.
"You have an eye for quality," she states warmly.
Her comment brings a bittersweet smile to my lips, my mind filled with nostalgia. "I used to sketch. A long time ago," I admit.
A knowing look crosses her face. "Art has a way of calling us back," she replies, her tone understanding and wise. "Why not pick it up again?"
Her words strike a chord and stir something inside me. Sketching was a part of who I was – who I am. It's a connection to my past, to my mother, and to a part of myself I thought I had lost, but perhaps it was never truly gone.
As my fingers wrap around the familiar weight of a sketchpad and a set of pencils, a spark ignites inside me.
