POV: Emilia Conti
I came to with the taste of metal at the back of my throat and the steady hum of an engine beneath me.
For a moment, I thought I was still in the operating room—caught in that strange half-state between shifts where your body shuts down but your mind keeps replaying monitors and alarms. Then the hum deepened, uneven, like tires moving over asphalt, and I realized I was lying down. Not on a gurney. Not on a hospital bed.
Something softer. Leather.
My eyes flew open.
The first thing I saw was the ceiling—dark, unfamiliar, stitched with faint seams. The second was the man sitting across from me.
He was awake.
Fully awake.
He leaned back in his seat with one arm braced against the door, posture loose, almost lazy. There was no blood on him now. No IV lines. No sign that he'd been on an operating table hours earlier with his life hanging by a thread.
Only the faint stiffness in his movement betrayed anything that had been wrong at all.
Our eyes met.
Gray-blue. Sharp. Alert.
My heart slammed hard against my ribs as memory rushed back in fragments—gunshot, concrete, blood pooling beneath my hands, his weight hitting the ground.
"You fainted," he said calmly.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. My throat was dry, tight.
"Where am I?" I finally managed.
"In my car."
I pushed myself upright, ignoring the wave of dizziness. The interior was dim, windows tinted so dark I couldn't see out. Two men sat in the front seats. Neither turned around.
I swung my legs off the seat.
A hand closed around my wrist.
Not rough. Not gentle. Controlled.
"Don't," he said.
I looked down at his hand, then back up at him. "Let go of me."
He studied my face, expression unreadable, then released me.
"Good," he said. "You're awake."
I stared at him, anger burning through the fear now. "You don't get to take me anywhere. I didn't agree to this."
"No," he replied easily. "You didn't."
I took a sharp breath. "You need to take me back. Now."
One corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile.
"That's not possible."
I scanned the space again, searching for something—anything—to ground myself. My bag was gone. My phone. My hands were shaking now, and I hated that he could probably see it.
"You were bleeding," I said. "You collapsed. You needed—"
"I needed to leave," he interrupted. "And you needed to come with me."
My pulse spiked. "Why?"
"Because you saw something you weren't meant to."
The words landed heavily between us.
I swallowed. "I'm a doctor. I see things every day."
"Not like that," he said.
The car slowed, then turned. The change in motion made my stomach dip.
"You killed a man," I said, forcing the words out. "I saw you."
His gaze didn't waver. "Yes."
No denial. No justification.
Just fact.
"And instead of calling the police, you drag me into your car?"
"You ran toward him," he said. "You knelt in his blood. You argued with a gun in your face."
"So?"
"So people like you don't forget."
My nails dug into my palms. "You think I'm going to expose you?"
"I think you don't know how dangerous the truth is yet."
The car came to a stop.
The doors unlocked in unison.
"Come," he said, standing.
I hesitated. Every instinct told me not to move, not to follow him into whatever waited outside those doors. But staying here wasn't an option either. I was already in too deep.
When I stepped out, the night air hit me hard—cool, sharp, real. We were in an underground garage, polished concrete and soft lighting stretching in every direction. Black cars lined the walls like sentinels.
He walked ahead of me without looking back, as if certain I would follow.
I did.
The elevator ride was silent. No numbers lit up. No music played. Just the faint hum of ascent and the steady presence of armed men behind us.
When the doors opened, I stepped into a world that felt unreal.
Glass. Steel. Marble. A sweeping view of the city spread out before me, lights glittering like something distant and unreachable. It was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
"This is where I'm staying?" I asked quietly.
"For now."
I turned on him. "You can't keep me here."
"I can," he said. "And I am."
Something in his tone—not threatening, not raised—made it worse.
"You're holding me against my will," I said. "That's kidnapping."
He tilted his head slightly. "If I wanted to kidnap you, you wouldn't be standing."
"That's not comforting."
"It's the truth."
I crossed my arms, grounding myself in anger because fear felt too big. "What happens now?"
"Now," he said, "you rest."
"I don't need rest. I need to go home."
He studied me again, eyes narrowing slightly. "You don't understand yet."
"Then explain it to me."
"You were seen with me," he said. "More than once. In a place where witnesses don't stay witnesses for long."
My stomach dropped.
"They'll come for you," he continued. "Not because you did anything wrong. Because you exist."
I shook my head. "That's insane."
"Is it?" He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You saved my life. That makes you valuable."
"I didn't do it for you."
"I know."
That answer surprised me.
"I did it because it's my job," I said.
"Yes," he agreed. "That's why you're still breathing."
Silence stretched between us.
I exhaled slowly. "You don't get to decide what happens to me."
"No," he said. "But I get to make sure you survive it."
I laughed, short and sharp. "You're the one who put me in danger."
"True."
He didn't argue it. Didn't soften it.
That honesty unsettled me more than lies would have.
"You'll stay here," he continued. "You'll be safe. No one will touch you."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't."
I met his gaze, holding it this time. "You don't know me."
A pause.
"I know enough," he said quietly. "You ran toward a dying man when you should have run away."
My throat tightened.
"I don't cage people for no reason," he added. "But I don't let liabilities walk either."
There it was.
Not protection. Not kindness.
Control.
"I want my phone," I said.
"You'll get one."
"My job."
"Taken care of."
"My debts—"
A flicker crossed his eyes. "Already handled."
I stared at him. "What?"
"You won't be worrying about money anymore," he said.
The ground shifted beneath my feet—not physically, but something inside me slipped, cracked.
"You had no right."
"Rights," he replied calmly, "are flexible things."
I shook my head, backing away. "This isn't real."
"It is," he said. "And it's only the beginning."
I looked out at the city again, at the life still moving out there without me.
When I turned back, he was watching me with something unreadable in his eyes.
And I understood, with chilling clarity, that I hadn't been taken because I was weak.
I'd been taken because I was useful.