Page 17 of The Assassin's Captive
My hands shake as I close the bathroom door behind me, the lock clicking into place with a sound that feels too loud in the quiet apartment. I lean against the cool wood, my heart hammering against my ribs. The questions he asked, the way he looked at me—everything has shifted, and I don't understand how or why.
Professional interest. The words echo in my mind as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is wild, my lips still swollen from his kisses, and I'm wearing his shirt over nothing else. I look like exactly what I am—a woman who spent the night in a stranger's bed. A woman who made a terrible mistake.
I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, trying to think. The Costa syndicate. Sealed court filings. He knows things he shouldn't know, asked questions that make my skin crawl. The way he said my name when he told me to sit down—there was authority in it, the kind that comes from being used to obedience.
The bathroom is small, utilitarian. No windows. There's a single cabinet below the sink. I open it, searching for something, anything that might help me understand what's happening.Prescription bottles with names I don't recognize, bandages, antiseptic. A straight razor that looks well-maintained lies next to an unopened box of condoms.
And behind it all, a small glass bottle sits empty, hidden in the back as if whoever finished the last dregs was ashamed. Whiskey, I guess, from the smell when I unscrew the cap. The glass is heavy in my hand, solid. I grip it by the neck, testing its weight and already letting a plan formulate in my mind.
I hear him moving around in the kitchen, the scrape of a chair, the sound of his phone buzzing. He's distracted and this might be my only chance. The man is twice my size, and I felt the power in his muscles last night when he had me pinned down.
He had me begging then. Now he has me trembling in a different way.
I unlock the door carefully, easing it open just enough to peek into the hallway. He's at the table, his back to me, phone in his hand. His shoulders are broad beneath the black shirt, and I can see the outline of something at his waist. A gun—of course there's a fucking gun. I knew better when I met him at the opera and I let him convince me to take a chance anyway. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I step into the hallway, barefoot on the hardwood floor. Each step feels enormous, certain to give me away, but he doesn't turn. He's typing something, his attention focused on the screen.
Three steps. Four. I'm close enough now to see the scar on the back of his neck, a thin line that disappears beneath his collar. Close enough to hear him breathing.
I raise the bottle, and for a moment, I hesitate. This is insane. I'm about to assault a man I barely know, a man who was inside me hours ago. A man who, if I fail to hit him correctly and take him out, can and will most definitely kill me. But the alternative—staying here, answering his questions, finding out what he really wants—feels worse.
I swing the bottle down, putting all my fear and confusion behind it. The glass connects with the base of his skull with a dull crack, and he goes rigid. His phone flies from his hand, skittering across the floor as he lurches forward.
He tries to catch himself on the table, but his legs buckle. He hits the floor hard, his head bouncing once against the tiles before he goes still.
I drop the bottle, and it shatters beside him, glass scattering across the kitchen. Blood seeps from his scalp, dark against his hair. For a terrible moment, I think I've killed him. Then I see his chest rise and fall, and relief floods through me.
I don't have time to feel guilty. I don't have time for anything except getting out of here.
My clothes are in the bedroom, scattered where we left them. I pull on my underwear, my dress, my shoes, my fingers fumbling with zippers and straps. Everything feels wrong, too tight, too loose, like I'm wearing someone else's skin.
My purse is on the nightstand, and I grab it, checking for my phone. The screen is black, dead. I press the power button, but nothing happens. When I try to remove the battery, I discover it's been tampered with. The SIM card is missing.
He disabled it. While I was sleeping, while I was naked and vulnerable in his bed, he destroyed my phone.
I fight down the panic and focus on what I need to do. Get out. Get away. Get help.
I search the apartment, looking for keys, for a way out. His jacket is draped over a chair, and I rifle through the pockets. Wallet. More phones—three of them, all locked with passcodes. And finally, car keys.
I check on him once more before I leave. He's still unconscious, blood pooling beneath his head. I should call for help, should do something. But I can't. Not when I don't know who he is or what he wanted from me.
The keys lead me to an underground garage, where a black sedan waits in the shadows. I've never stolen a car before, but I know how to drive. The engine turns over smoothly, and I navigate toward the exit, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
The streets of Rome are nearly empty at this hour, the sun just beginning to rise over the ancient city. I drive through neighborhoods I don't recognize, past buildings that could be apartments or offices or something else entirely. Everything looks unfamiliar, threatening.
I need to get to the police. I need to report what happened—the questions, the disabled phone, the way he blocked the door. But first, I need to get away from here, away from whatever web I've stumbled into.
The car handles well, responsive to my touch. I push the speed limit, weaving through the narrow streets, trying to remember the way to the center of the city. My head pounds, a combination of fear and whatever I drank last night. The wine. The whiskey. I can still taste them, bitter on my tongue.
I make a turn, then another, following signs toward the city center. The buildings grow taller, more recognizable. I'm getting closer to familiar territory, to safety.
But my vision keeps blurring. The edges of everything seem soft, uncertain. I blink hard, trying to focus, but the steering wheel feels slippery in my hands. My arms are heavy, uncooperative.
I'm still drunk. Or hungover. Or both. And maybe shock or fear is playing a part too—I can barely see straight and my breathing is too shallow. The realization hits me as I approach an intersection, the light turning yellow. I should stop, should wait for green, but my foot presses the accelerator instead.
The car lurches forward, and I hear the screech of brakes behind me. Someone honks, long and angry. I've run a red light, but I don't stop. I can't stop. Not yet.
My phone might be dead, but there are other ways to get help. Police stations. Hospitals. Government buildings. Somewhere safe where I can explain what happened, where someone will believe me.
