Page 13 of Power
Where the hell am I?
Did they drug me again?
Of course they did. I remember them dragging me out of the room where the pianist was and bringing me here. I was screaming, fighting them off, but they must have gotten tired of it.
The next thing I remember is smoke everywhere, choking on it, and then... nothing.
The Pianist. He was the one who saved me that night. And stopped me on my early morning jogging path again. It’s clear now—he was indeed following me, or even worse, stalking me.
Why would he kidnap me? What does he want?
Does Enzo know about this?
Considering what he told me that first night I met the pianist, could this all be part of his plan?
No. Enzo wouldn’t throw me into the hands of a clearly depraved man like this.
Something else is amiss.
I push myself up and blink against the dim light. The room is small and bare. A basement, judging by the exposed beams and the musty scent of dust and mildew. There’s a bed with a thin mattress in the corner, a metal chair, and a small table. No windows—just a single door, solid and reinforced with steel.
Panic claws its way up my throat.
I stagger to my feet, heart hammering, and make my way to the door. Locked. Of course. My fingers fumble against the handle, shaking, useless.
No, no, no.
I bang my fists against it, my voice cracking. “Let me out! Hello? Let me the fuck out!”
Nothing. Silence presses in and swallows the echoes of my own voice. My breath comes fast, too fast. The walls feel like they’re closing in.
Then, footsteps. Heavy and measured.
The lock clicks and the door swings open.
He steps inside like he owns the air in my lungs.
My stomach drops.
I never assumed he wouldn’t be one of those people who wouldn’t go to any length to get what they want, but I thought we’d established something real in those brief conversations. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was always wrong.
Getting kidnapped by the same man who once saved me from a predator should feel impossible. But when his stare cuts through me like a scalpel, I know this is real.
"You don’t have to do this. Please." My voice sounds foreign—distant, metallic, like it’s been stripped from my body and stitched onto me.
He doesn’t react. Just watches.
"I—" My mind scrambles for something, anything. “Why are you doing this?” My voice is hoarse, disbelief tightening around my throat like a noose. “Do you really think my husband would just sit back and do nothing while I’m treated like this? If you think you’ve gotten away with this, think again. He’ll come for you. He’ll burn this place to the ground, and he won’t stop until you’re nothing but ash.”
Still nothing.
“Are you suddenly deaf? I said I want out of here!” I shout.
And the bastard laughs like he’s heard this threat a thousand times before and it never fazed him. "Your husband?" he scoffs and shakes his head. "I’m not worried about him. Let him come. He’ll find a grave already dug, and I’m the one holding the shovel."
“I want to speak to my husband.”
He still doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink.
