Chasing Sandro: A Dangerous Obsession

Chapter 25: The First Days

Sandro had always believed himself to be a man of resilience. He'd faced challenges in his political career—scandals, betrayals, fierce competition—but he had never known real fear. That was something reserved for lesser men, those who didn't hold the kind of influence or power that he did. But as the first day of his captivity passed, that confidence began to erode.

At first, his instincts had told him to fight. He was certain his team would come for him. They would notice he was missing, send out alerts, and the media would run headlines about the disappearance of Congressman Sandro Marcos. It would be a scandal, but at least it would be temporary.

But as the hours turned into a full day, and then another, his defiance began to crumble. The reality of his situation became clearer with each passing moment. He wasn't in some temporary holding cell waiting for a ransom to be paid. His captors hadn't even contacted anyone to negotiate. There were no demands, no ultimatums. There was only silence, and the heavy weight of not knowing.

**Day One**

Sandro sat in the cold, dimly lit room, his wrists still bound, his muscles aching from the restraints. His captors had not returned, and he had no idea how long they intended to keep him there. His throat was dry, his stomach empty, and his head still pounded from whatever sedative they had used on him. Despite the pain, he kept telling himself that this was temporary—that someone would find him.

He had yelled for hours after the masked men had left, his voice hoarse from the effort. But no one came. He kicked at the door with his bound feet, trying to draw attention, but the thick metal didn't even dent. It was like screaming into the void.

His phone was gone, and there was no way to track him. His mind raced, trying to figure out how long he had been unconscious in the car, where they might have taken him. But it was all a blur. His mind was playing tricks on him, and the growing fear gnawed at his composure.

For the first time in his life, Sandro was powerless. The man who always held the upper hand, who could control every room he walked into, was now at the mercy of faceless captors.

**Day Two**

By the second day, the hunger gnawing at Sandro's stomach was almost unbearable. His throat was parched, his body weak from dehydration. His thoughts, once sharp and determined, had begun to blur into a haze of desperation.

In the dead silence of the room, Sandro's mind became his worst enemy. Every scenario played out in his head—who had done this, and why? His political opponents? Someone seeking revenge? But the more he thought about it, the more one possibility began to stand out.

Bella.

It was an absurd thought at first, but the more he turned it over in his mind, the more it began to make sense. She had been infatuated with him for so long, her obsession barely hidden behind her quiet, persistent presence. He had seen her at events, and he knew she had connections, wealth beyond what she let on. Could she have gone this far?

But no—Bella didn't have the ruthlessness for something like this. Or at least, she hadn't seemed to. Sandro pushed the thought away, trying to focus on the present.

His eyes scanned the room again, searching for anything—any possible way out. But the space was as bare as it had been the day before. The concrete walls offered no weaknesses, the door no signs of escape. The single light above him flickered occasionally, casting eerie shadows that only heightened his sense of isolation.

Suddenly, the sound of the door unlocking jolted Sandro from his thoughts. His heart pounded as the door creaked open, and two of the masked men entered. One of them carried a bottle of water, and the other had a small plate of food—dry bread and a few scraps of something unidentifiable.

Sandro's initial instinct was to lash out, to demand answers, to fight for his freedom. But the sight of the water made his mouth ache with need. He couldn't afford to let pride stand in the way of survival.

The men said nothing as they set the plate and bottle on the floor before him, stepping back toward the door. Sandro looked up at them, his voice rough from thirst. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

But they remained silent, their masked faces giving nothing away. One of them stepped forward and cut the ropes binding his wrists. His arms fell limply to his sides, the pain of sudden movement making him wince. They didn't untie his feet, though, leaving him still partially immobilized.

Sandro reached for the water with trembling hands, drinking greedily, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He forced himself to eat the food, despite the nausea rising in his stomach.

"Just tell me what you want," Sandro demanded again, but the men turned and left without a word. The door clanged shut, and the lock clicked into place once more, leaving Sandro alone with the questions that haunted him.

**Day Three**

By the third day, Sandro's fear had fully set in. His initial defiance had given way to dread, as the realization that no one had come for him weighed heavily on his mind. His team should have noticed his disappearance by now. The news should have been flooded with reports of his kidnapping, but he had heard nothing—no voices, no commotion outside the room.

Sandro's body was weak, his muscles sore and his mind clouded with hunger and fatigue. His thoughts circled back to the possibility of Bella's involvement. Could she really be behind this? The idea was becoming harder to dismiss. He had played with her feelings, perhaps more than he realized. Was this her way of taking revenge, of forcing him to see her? Or was there something else at play?

The more Sandro thought about it, the more he began to spiral. Was anyone even looking for him? Had his enemies orchestrated this in a way that ensured he wouldn't be missed? It was the uncertainty that terrified him most. He had no idea how long they intended to keep him here, or what their endgame was.

His body ached from sitting in the same position for so long, and the constant silence was beginning to wear on his nerves. The fear of the unknown gnawed at him, and for the first time in his life, Sandro felt truly vulnerable.

As the day wore on, his mind continued to race with possibilities. But every time the door opened, and the masked men entered to give him just enough food and water to survive, his hope of escape grew dimmer.

There was no ransom, no demands, no explanation. And as each hour passed, Sandro felt the crushing weight of his own helplessness settle over him.

By the end of the third day, the only thing Sandro knew for certain was that he wasn't in control anymore. His life, his future, everything he had built—it was all in someone else's hands now.

And that terrified him more than anything.