Page 5 of Bratva Prisoner
But as the days pass, every lead turns into a dead end. Alyssa becomes a ghost, someone who existed for one perfect night and then dissolved into the ether. My investigators find nothing, and nobody we found to question who was in the club that night knows her.
It’s like she never existed at all.
I spend countless hours replaying our conversation, looking for clues I might have missed. She said she wasn’t from around here, but that could mean anything. She was evasive about her job, her background, everything that might help me track her down. Either she’s naturally private, or she deliberately obscured her trail.
The rational part of my brain knows I should move on. One-night stands are supposed to be exactly that—one night. But every other woman pales in comparison to the memory of strawberry blonde hair and emerald eyes and the way she felt in my arms.
None of them is her.
Someone, somewhere, knows who she is. Someone saw her leave that night. Someone has answers.
I just have to find them.
Because giving up isn’t an option. Not when it comes to her.
Not when it comes to the best night of my life.
Chapter 2 - Alyssa
Running away from your problems is supposed to be a temporary solution, not a lifestyle choice.
I duck behind a newspaper stand and peek around the corner, eyeing the busy street for any sign of Troy’s beat-up Honda. My pulse hammers against my throat as I study every parked car, every face in the crowd. The coast looks clear, but that doesn’t mean much anymore. He’s gotten creative with his stalking methods over the past few weeks, showing up at places I didn’t even know he knew about.
God, what a mess my life has become.
A year ago, I graduated from college with a business degree with dreams of conquering the corporate world. Now, I’m hiding behind street vendors like some kind of fugitive, all because I had terrible taste in men and an even worse sense of timing. My mother always warned me about my tendency to pick the wrong guys, but I thought Troy was different. Shows how much I know.
Troy seemed normal enough when we first started dating. Charming, attentive, the kind of guy who remembered your coffee order and texted you good morning every day. For three months, I actually thought I’d found someone decent for once. He brought me flowers on random Tuesdays and laughed at my terrible jokes. He seemed stable, employed, and most of all, kind.
Then I walked into his apartment unannounced and discovered him in the middle of what I can only describe as a very unofficial business meeting.
Strange men with dead eyes and bulging jackets filled his living room. Money changed hands in thick stacks whilesomeone counted it on a side table. Someone mentioned “territory” and “consequences” in the kind of tone that made my skin crawl. Troy stood in the center of it all, barking orders like he was running some kind of operation. His entire demeanor had transformed from the sweet boyfriend I knew into something deadly and dangerous.
The moment he saw me, his face went white. Every conversation in the room stopped like someone pressed a pause button.
I held up the takeout bags like they could somehow shield me from whatever I’d just witnessed. The room went silent. Every eye turned toward me, and I felt like a rabbit that had wandered into a wolf pack. One of the men reached inside his jacket, and that’s when my survival instincts finally kicked in. My legs moved before my brain caught up.
I dropped the food and ran.
Troy caught up with me in the hallway, and he wrenched my arm hard enough to bruise as he whipped me around. He swore he could explain, and begged me to believe it wasn’t what it looked like. But his eyes darted back toward his apartment door like he was worried about being overheard.
I yanked my arm free, rubbing the spot where he squeezed too hard, and demanded to know what it was then. He couldn’t answer that. Or maybe he just wouldn’t, and I realized I was looking at a stranger wearing my boyfriend’s face.
I broke up with him that night, convincing myself I’d dodged a bullet. Another toxic relationship ended before it could really damage me. Another bad influence purged from my life. My mother was right; my track record with men has always been questionable, but at least this time I got out before things got truly messy.
If only it were that simple.
Troy didn’t take the breakup well. What started as excessive texting escalated to showing up at my apartment unannounced, pounding on my door at all hours until my neighbors started complaining. When I stopped answering the door, he began following me to work, to the grocery store, to my favorite coffee shop. Always staying just far enough away to avoid being called out, but close enough to make sure I knew he was there.
I caught glimpses of him in my peripheral vision, always lurking, always watching.
I went to the police, but they were about as helpful as a chocolate teapot. The desk sergeant barely looked up from his paperwork when I explained the situation, his bored expression making it clear he’d heard this story a thousand times before.
The sergeant shrugged like my safety was just another item on his to-do list and said it was probably just a coincidence. That seeing someone in public places isn’t a crime. Come back if he makes a threat or touches me.
Translation: wait until something bad happens, then maybe we’ll care.
So here I am, three weeks later, playing an exhausting game of cat and mouse with a man who clearly has connections to people I don’t want to mess with. Every time I think I’ve lost him, he pops up again like a bad rash. My nerves are shot, my savings account is dwindling, and I’m starting to jump at shadows.
