Sylvia and Luke appear to have the perfect life. A thriving fashion startup, a beautiful four-year-old daughter, and a love that began when they met at Harvard Business School. But beneath the surface, Luke hides a dark secret-he's the heir to one o...
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The refrigerator's hum vibrates through the quiet night, the only sound competing with the exhaustion clinging to me. Managing a conference call while Luke heroically built a pillow fort complete with a beach towel drawbridge was more draining than it sounds. Lyria, our resident princess, sleeps soundly within the elaborate fortress, no doubt dreaming of glittering tiaras and daring rescues.
I reach for a glass. The cool touch is a balm against the lingering adrenaline. Suddenly, hushed voices drift through the living room doorway. My heart stutters, the ice clinking ominously in the glass as I set it down.
Luke wouldn't have company at this ungodly hour, not without a heads-up. An unsettling feeling worms its way through me. Silently, I creep closer, the floorboards groaning faintly beneath my bare feet.
Peeking around the corner, I freeze. Luke stands in the middle of the room, his back to me, facing three men. Streetlights cast dim shadows, obscuring their faces, but their rough clothing and imposing stature send a jolt of fear through me. They speak in hushed tones, a rapid-fire exchange in Italian, a language I don't understand, but the angry glint in their eyes needs no translation. My blood runs cold. This isn't a social call.
Panic claws at my throat, the urge to scream a primal warning. But Luke, calm and collected despite the tense atmosphere, holds me back. He doesn't seem afraid, not exactly. Confused, perhaps, but a steely determination in his stance offers a sliver of hope.
Just then, one of the men steps forward, his voice a harsh rasp in the quiet room. He speaks in Italian, but the gist is clear. "Signor Marino," he growls, the words clipped and threatening, "we need to talk."
Luke turns, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Talk?" he echoes, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. "I don't understand. Who are you?"
The man in front remains silent, but his cold stare speaks volumes. Then, with a swift, practiced move, he grabs Luke's arm, twisting it behind his back. A gasp escapes my lips, barely a whisper.
The other two men lunge forward, their movements swift and coordinated. Before I can even react, one of them clamps a hand over my mouth, stifling my scream. The metallic tang of something cold and sharp fills my nostrils. Everything starts to spin, the world blurring around the edges.
Terror floods my veins. Luke's face, etched with shock and growing anger, is the last thing I see before darkness claims me. "Sylvia!" he roars, the sound swallowed by the suffocating haze that clouds my mind. I fight against the encroaching darkness, a silent scream trapped inside me, but it's futile.
The world shrinks to a suffocating pinprick of darkness, the metallic tang a constant reminder of the object pressed against my nose. My body goes limp, a desperate last attempt to conserve energy against the overwhelming odds. A muffled struggle filters through the haze, a primal roar of defiance that I recognize as Luke's voice. It fuels a spark of rebellion within me.
I fight back, a surge of adrenaline momentarily breaking the haze. With a strength born of desperation, I twist my head, catching a glimpse of Luke's arm wrenching free. Hope flares – a fleeting flame in the suffocating darkness. But before he can react, a sickening crack echoes through the room, followed by Luke's choked gasp of pain. The spark within me dies, replaced by a cold, suffocating terror.
They overpower him quickly, his struggles morphing into pained grunts. I hear the thud of his body hitting the floor, and a primal scream tears at my throat, muffled by the hand clamped over my mouth. Tears sting my eyes, blurring the already indistinct scene.
"Occupati di lei," one of the men snarls in Italian, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Il capo la vuole viva."
Rough hands grab me, hoisting me off the ground with a surprising lack of gentleness. The world spins, a dizzying kaleidoscope of furniture and shadows. A choked sob escapes me, the taste of metallic fear heavy on my tongue.
"Non preoccuparti, bella," a voice murmurs in my ear, the accent thick and unfamiliar. "Non farà male. Dormirai soltanto un po'."
The voice is followed by a prick in my arm, a searing pain that momentarily eclipses the terror gripping me. My vision swims, the room tilting at a precarious angle. Luke's face, etched with pain and fury, flashes in my mind before the darkness claims me once more, this time a welcome escape from the nightmare unfolding around me.
