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“Callan!” I scream tearfully, begging him to save me, even though he was using me to get to this Isabella. He is the only person who can help any of us now.
“You’ll fucking die, Santino!” Callan’s dark voice penetrates through the speaker. My phone is dropped, and a heavy heel crunches it into the carpet, cutting Callan’s rage short. I’m yanked up high and dragged down the hall, my hair being torn from my scalp.
“You deal with those two. We don’t need witnesses,” Santino instructs Ramis. Both Oscar and Chloe go into a panic, their muffled yells filling the room, their chairs scraping at the floor. I scream, kick, and shout for help, knowing it will draw attention,or at the very least slow them down. I sag when in the near distance, I hear the sound of sirens filling the streets. Oh, thank God, thank God! Either Callan has alerted them, or someone in this neighbourhood has overheard the noise and called the police. The flash of red and blue bursts around the corner at the end of the street.
Sensing they have little time, the Russians leave both Oscar and Chloe and rush me out of the apartment. I make a scene, screeching, and thrashing about to draw attention, and it does. A few people see and either lift their phones or start shouting for help as I’m bundled into a blacked-out car. Both men sit in the back with me as a small beady-looking guy wheel spins off and drives us away.
I’m panting, heart racing, my throat dry with acid. He’ll come for me. He has to, even if it’s just to get to Isabella. I’m his link. Callan can't leave me, not if he wants her. I don’t realise that I’m frantically saying this out loud until I’m yanked harshly.
“Shut up!” A heavy lump of metal cracks into my temple, and I fall forward, blacking out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The first thing I become aware of when I wake is the pain. My face is a mass of discomfort, tight, bruised and aching everywhere, and my lip feels like an unnatural fleshy mound on my face. The second thing I notice is the smell. The environment is dank, musty, and cold. Can you smell cold? I feel like I can. My eyes are blindfolded, my arms taut behind my back. I try not to move, and I give it my all to keep my breathing slow to feign sleep, but my heart is treacherous and is galloping ahead, squealing in fear, desperate to get away. I lie still, allowing my senses to take in my sightless surroundings. I can’t hear anyone,senseanyone. Blinking, I sample how thick the blindfold is. If there is a possibility I can see through it, then I will use it to my advantage, but after a few minutes of trying to see through the cloth, I’m still visionless. I lie helpless and vulnerable for a long time. Time drags and ticks by at an unusual pace, both slow and too fast, each minute seeming to span an hour and pass in a millisecond. For every minute that passes, I’m caught between the notion of wasting valuable time by not fighting against my restraints or the fear of making myself known by moving. The latter wins. I’m petrified. My breathing is a shallow, rapid pant. It’s cold in here, but I’m sweating, and as I become more conscious, I begin to lose feeling in my fingers and feet from the restraints knotting my flesh together. I will die here.
ModelZara Reid, kidnapped and tortured.
Biting my lip, I fight the tears, fight and lose. They slip free and fall, soaking my blindfold and wetting my hair. I’m soon sobbing, but despair turns to anger, and I thrash and scream, trying to free my limbs. I drag my face against the mattress to tug the material down, but it’s too tight.
A loud creak stalls me, footsteps follow it up, and that telltale sensation of someone being close by prickles my scalp. I thrust and try to free myself, but I only succeed in chafing my skin.
“So you are awake. Good, we can begin,” the voice says. I can’t quite place which Yovenko it is. Twisting my face, I try to locate him by sense alone, but I can no longer hear anything.
What follows is nothing short of inhumane: fists and boots beat me until I’m ragged and bloody. The pain is indescribable. Bones protest, and my breath wheezes out as my begging slips away with my conscious mind. At some point, I zone out, my mind twisting in on itself to protect me from the ugly truth: that I may die today. I find myself mentally surrounded by the sea. The water coats my bare skin, the sun dazzles off the surface, dancing with the waves, birds twitter, and grasses rustle with the gentle breeze. It’s a haven of crystal water. I tread the water whilst the heat of the sun prickles my flesh. It feels divine. Below the water, hands slip around my waist, and I twist with a smile on my face. Dark, dark eyes smile down into mine. Callan. Where I tread the water, he stands, a smirk on his gorgeous face. He pulls me to him, and I hook my legs around his trunk of a waist, slipping into his arms and bending to kiss. Our lips touch, but unlike the pleasure I want to feel, I’m engulfed with pain. Callan disappears before my eyes, and I splash in the sea, calling out for him, frantically searching the depths. I’m far out now, alone in the vast ocean. No land in sight. No Callan. No birds, just a dark deep ocean surrounding me, the thundering sky above. The air crackles, rumbles, and lightning hits the sea, causing me to scream as another bout of pain lacerates my body. I blink, coming to, as a large fist swings to my face, and I black out once more.
The next few days are filled with intense interrogations. I’ve been kept awake for days, strapped to a chair. Every time I felt myself drop off, lights, bright and hot, slam on, causing my swollen lids to repel against the glare. My blindfold has been removed, but what little I can see through my now-slittedeyes isn't helpful.
It’s been hours and hours of them asking me where the file is. What did my father do with it? Asking me questions about the days leading up to his murder, how he acted, did he give me anything the day of his death? Did he seem cryptic or on edge? For every question, the answers are always no, I don’t know, or I don’t remember. The days leading up to that night are cloudy. It’s as if my mind has cut it out and refuses me admission to see something I should remember fondly. All I recall is the sickening bang of the bullet killing him—the fear I’ve lived with since.
“Water,” I croak. I’ve been without water and food for so long, I just hope they give me something. Even speaking that one word has cost me, and the pain it has invoked triggers nausea to swirl in the depths of my stomach. A tear slips free, and I close my eyes, picturing Callan. Beautiful Callan. Where is he? Does he not care for me at all?
Russian words fill the quiet, a back and forth of two people talking. I wait, willing them to bring me something to drink. After a few moments, two sets of footsteps retreat, and I sag forward. I want to cry, but I know it will exhaust me, and I have to keep awake, keep my wits about me. The door creaks and clunks shut. There is a part of me that is waiting for one of them to laugh at me for thinking I was safe for a short time and start beating me again, but after several tense minutes, I chance a look up and find I’m alone.
Hours pass without any visitors or water. My throat is barbed-wire-sore, and each swallow costs me dearly. I’m resting with my head forwards. My tangled hair hangs limply, blood-coated and dried into clumps. I’m staring at my raw ankles when the door creaks open, and I stiffen, expecting the impact of a heavy foot or rock hard fist, but these footsteps are light, soft, feminine.
“Isabella, no talking!” a voice threatens.
Isabella!
She’s here. I never thought I would feel happiness at her appearance, but her mere existence could save my life. Will save my life. Callan will come for her. I just need to hang on. It breaks my heart, but I owe this woman my life. Just by him loving her, she is saving me from the worst fate.
“C. . .Ca. . .Callan is coming,” I whisper-croak. Her steps halt. She gasps, and I dare to lift my face to look at the woman who has won the love of a man I so desperately want. Our gazes collide, and her dark brown irises with my battered green ones. “He’s… coming,” I say in a husky tone. She has long, dark brown hair, and pretty almond eyes. She is trim and petite. Stunning, if not hollow. Her eyes are soulless. How long have these men kept her, hurt her? I dread to think what she has endured. My gaze says it all. She lifts the bottle with a straw, but just as it’s close to my lips, she drops it, and I whimper at the loss.
“Isabella!” Someone shouts, making me jump, and her flinch.
“She knocked it. She’s shaking,” Isabella defends. Then she looks at me. “Not water,” she whispers quickly. I smell it then, urine. It has drenched my feet and trickles out on the floor. Fucking urine.
“Out!” the man calls, and Isabella quickly exits the room, her dress billowing with her quick steps. The door clangs shut, and I begin to sob quietly.
I don't know how long it has been. I have given up trying to keep some sort of track, and it may have been minutes or hours. I’ve begun to pass the time by humming, anything to fill the quiet, anything to drive the fear from my mind. It’s humming that sends me into a light slumber. I slip off easily into a restless sleep, and moments pass before the lights blare on. They are as loud as music, jolting me awake. Groaning, I try to hide my eyes behind my hair again. The wattage is torture alone, the heat of them, salt to my already sore wounds. I shake my head, letting them see I’m awake, but the lights stay on.
“I’m awake,” I croak, but they don’t let up. The lights keep on attacking my retinas. Heavy footsteps pound the outer corridor, so loud they sound like gunshots. My disorientated mind can’t even detect one sound from another. The door slams open, ricocheting off the wall. I flinch and whimper, waiting for the beating to start, but Callan suddenly fills my view. I try to open my mouth, but he shushes me.
“Don't speak. God, Zara, I couldn't find you. Fuck, you’re a mess.” He is tugging at my ties, trying to free me.
“She’s… here… Isabella,” I confirm in a rasp, blinking to find his black eyes. Shock. Relief. Anguish. Gratitude and regret all fill his stare at once. Eyes that at one point seemed emotionless and void now pour out a truth to me I never wanted to witness. He holds my look for a moment, but then without hesitation, he is twisting away and storming from the room. Leaving me alone. My shoulders jerk, gasping for breath. The pain is too much. He left me for her. I wail softly, too exhausted to cry properly. The next pair of hands to fall on me are Tony’s. For once, I am happy to see him.
I’m eased into the back of a car. Tony clips me in and moves fluidly round to the front to slip in behind the wheel. Movement to my left brings my head around where Callan is escorting Isabella out. Their hands are locked tight, and her face is awash with relief, tear-stricken but so grateful. He pulls her face to his, and with his back to mine, I can only imagine he is kissing her. His head turns my way, so I dip my gaze, too hurt to witness it any further. The engine purrs to life, and Tony twists round to look at me.
