Soft crying filled the room.
A hospital robe-wearing woman spread out on the cold linoleum floor. The IV bag above her dangled gently, its tube still plugged into her wrist. She had dragged the drip stand with her, her last remaining thread of dignity rolling along beside her like a chained ghost.
In front of her stood a man in a black cashmere overcoat, a ring of smoke from a half-smoked cigar held in his hand. His brown hair was neatly cut. His eyes? Cold. Dark. Empty. He dragged on the cigar.
"Where are the meds?" His authoritative voice came without hesitation.
From the stairwell, a man emerged tall, suited in charcoal black, his eyes hidden behind dark shades, an earpiece wire curling behind his neck. The bodyguard.
"Here they are," the bodyguard muttered, handing over a brown paper bag.
The man in the coat took it. Then, without hesitation, he squatted in front of her, like a predator studying an injured prey.
"Look here," he yanked her by her hair so that she was forced to look at him.
"If your bloody-ass daughter isn't home in two weeks," he sneered, "I'll send your heart to her as a souvenir."
Her eyes were clouded. Her lips trembled. Her lower lip bled where she had bitten down too hard.
How did we get here?
How did the man who once kissed my hand now threaten to tear it from my chest?
Was this the same man who promised me a safe life? Who bought me orchids and read Neruda by candlelight?
But that was years ago. That man had vanished.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke against her face, a chill contempt of love.She coughed.
"Two weeks, Evelyn," he said, letting go of her hair like she was filth.
He rose, tugged off his coat, handed it to the bodyguard, and disappeared up the stairs.
Was it over already?
Evelyn stared blankly ahead, her breath catching.
No. No no no. Not again.
He's going after Leighton.
She's not safe.
None of us are.
He won't stop,not till we're buried in pieces...
Her chest rose and fell fast, shallow, desperate.
The walls felt like they were pressing in. The drip stand blurred in her vision.
Her hands trembled. Her lungs screamed.
She was hyperventilating.
The bodyguard knelt beside her. He didn't speak.
He pulled a syringe from his coat pocket, filled it calmly, and gave her a small injection of diazepam.
His face didn't change. But his eyes lingered on her longer than they needed to.
He hated her the way she was.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Leighton opened her eyes.
The room was dark… or maybe it was just her eyes messing with her?
She sighed and blinked up at the ceiling.
Wait... stars? Then she realized, nope. The ceiling wasn't just dark.
It was full of stars. Or at least, it was trying to be.
A soft, artificial glow twinkled above her. Was this some kind of fancy projection? She blinked. Definitely not her apartment.
She frowned.
Her phone buzzed inside her half-open bag. She rolled over to grab it then stopped.
She was cold.
She slowly peeled back the blankets and peeked underneath.
Her eyes widened.
"What the hell?" she muttered. Then it hit, a sharp, pounding headache.
Great.
She groaned and slid off the bed, stumbling toward her bag.
Behind her, the man in the bed rolled over, crunching against the sheets.
She froze mid-step. Then glanced at him.
He had his back to her now, broader, sunned, sleeved. There was one that she noticed in particular: a grimy dressing across his upper shoulder, discreetly smudged red.
A vague memory flickered behind her eyes, blood?… initials?
She shoved the thought away.
Who even is this guy?
She rummaged through her bag and grabbed a bottle of aspirin, popped one, swallowed it dry, and then reached for her phone.
5:12 AM.
What happened last night?
She pressed her hand against her forehead.
Bandages. Tattoos. Initials.
Was he in a gang? A cult? A fugitive?
And how did she end up in his bed?
She spotted her suit by the bathroom door crumpled and sad-looking.
She tiptoed toward it and picked it up.
It reeked.
Yep,definitely alcohol. And probably vomit.
She rubbed her temples and scanned the room for options. Her hair was a mess. Everything was a mess.
She needed to leave. Now.
Then she had an idea.
She crept over to the wardrobe, opened it and stared.
Black. Everything was black.
All black shirts.
She rolled her eyes.
Of course. Who is this guy? The Grim Reaper?
She checked the drawers. One white shirt, neatly folded.
She grabbed it and threw it on. It was long, a little oversized, but it worked.
She gathered her clothes, reached for her bag, a hand clamped down on it.
Dario.
She hadn't even heard him move, but there he was. Eyes still closed, face relaxed, but his fingers had curled around the handle.
Then his voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Her heart skipped.
She stared at him, stunned,
But then…
He snored.
Loudly. He was asleep.
She exhaled, what the hell was that?
Gently, she peeled the bag from his grip and backed away like he was a live bomb boots silent on the floor, and slipped out the door, closing it carefully behind her.
She turned to a hefty man in black who stood outside, arms crossed. No smile, no nod. Just watching.
His gaze met hers.
She clutched her bag tighter.