Till Lies Do Us Part

“Where the hell am I?” Was the singular thought in my head as I regained consciousness.

My head was pounding, and my mouth was dry from the metallic taste of blood and chemicals. I tried to move, but my hands were bound tightly in front of me, and there was a blindfold covering my eyes.

What the f*ck is going on? I was supposed to be on a dinner date with Jessica? Where is she?

I can feel that I am in a moving car, and I can feel the presence of two men sitting beside me, their bodies pressing in on either side. My skin crawled at their suffocating proximity and then the memories of the last minutes before I lost consciousness hit me like a flash.

These men had dragged me into their SUV while I was waiting for Jessica in front of the restaurant where we were to have our dinner date. They had me bound and unconscious in their moving SUV before my bodyguard from across the street could even reach me.

Now they are taking me to God knows where and they are speaking in low, murmured Italian and laughing as if we were on a joyride.

I felt a hand on my lap, creeping dangerously close to my inner thighs, and bile rose in my throat. I jerked my leg away, letting out a screech louder than the car’s engines.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” I yelled, twisting against my restraints. “You don’t know who you’re messing with! He will come for me, and he’ll kill every last one of you! You will regret ever touching me! You f*ck*ng bastards!”

One of the men growled, then his hand struck out, slapping me hard across the face. My head snapped to the side, the sting of it radiating through my cheek.

“He is out of town,” the other one sneered, and my heart plummeted. They knew. They had planned this, knowing he wasn’t Manhattan.

My bravado crumbled, replaced by cold, stark fear. I started to plead, my voice cracking. “Please, let me go. You don’t have to do this. What is it you want?”

They ignored me, their laughter continuing, dismissive and cruel. Desperation clawed at my insides. "Please, I won’t tell anyone—just let me go."

"Shut up," one of them snapped, his voice cold and final.

A phone rang suddenly, piercing through the tension. The driver answered, his tone impatient. “What is it?” he snapped.

There was a hurried and fear-stricken voice on the other end. “There’s a motorcycle speeding up behind us. It’s almost on us. There is also an SUV following closely behind the motorcycle.”

The man beside me cursed in Italian. “Handle it,” he barked. “Shoot anything that moves or crawls. Do not let him get close.”

Who could it be? Are they here for me? I thought painfully and hopefully.

The SUV jerked as the driver accelerated his speed. Gunshots exploded in the night, loud and sharp, sending a jolt through me. The men beside me tensed, speaking in rapid Italian and chilling clicks echoed through the car—it was the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked.

The driver swerved violently, making sharp, erratic turns as a car explosion rocked the SUV. “F*ck! It’s him!” The man to my left yelled, his voice high with fear. “Santo Nero! He’s here!”

“How the f*ck did he find us?" The driver yelled before breaking off in Italian.

The name sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Santo Nero’. That is his name whispered in fear and reverence in the darkest corners of Manhattan.

Another explosion rocked the SUV, followed by the sharp hiss of tires losing grip and the men beside me started firing wildly out the windows.

I thrashed against my restraints, kicking and pushing at the man beside me just as I heard a faint, chilling sound pierce through the window—a sniper’s bullet.

The man next to me fell limp, his weight collapsing onto me as I felt something wet and warm seep through my dress. Blood.

“Get me out of here!” My screams drowned out the gunshots as I pushed his body away. But I heard the silent pierce of another bullet through the window and the other man to my right met the same fate, falling limp on me.

By this point, I was screaming, the driver was screaming, and the car was jerking violently. God save us all!

The SUV suddenly lurched to a stop and I heard the terrorizing sound of a motorcycle coming from the front of the car. My breaths were ragged, and fear had me shaking uncontrollably in the back seat.

I heard the front passenger door open, a quiet scuffle, then the distinct, chilling sound of a silenced gunshot. The driver’s pleading voice was snuffed out in an instant.

I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus. My mind was filled with raw terror as I fumbled with my bindings, trying to free myself. I needed to get out. I needed to run.

But someone else got there first.

The door beside me swung open, and I screamed, thrashing wildly. Strong arms lifted me from the car, my body writhing in panic as I fought like a cornered animal.

“Let me go! Please, someone help me!” I cried.

The person carrying me didn’t respond. They were silent and brutal, carrying me with ease to another car. I was placed smoothly in the back seat, and for a moment, I stilled, my senses overwhelmed.

There was someone else in the back.

I recognized the scent immediately—spice, caramel, rain, musk—and blood. It’s him. It had to be him. I knew this car. I knew this presence. The blindfold was still on, but I was certain that it had to be him.

I reached out my tied hands to touch him, desperate for reassurance that it was him and not some trick of my mind. I touched his arm, his chest, and his face, but he said nothing. He didn’t even move.

“Say something,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please… let me know it’s you. Say something. Please hold me.” I was greeted with nothing but silence.

“Luciano? Matteo? Please tell me he is the one with me.” I reached out to touch the seats in front of me. If he is the one, then his trusted bodyguards must be the ones in the front seats. “Bloody say something!” I yelled, frustrated when I couldn’t feel anything.

The partition between the front and back seats slid up, sealing any response they would have given me.

“Please, just say something,” I whispered, my voice breaking as I clung to his warmth. The silence was suffocating, more terrifying than the chaos that had just happened.

I was left with nothing but my own ragged breath and the heavy presence beside me. I fisted my hands, preparing myself to hit him, but then a single thought consumed me, pausing my actions.

Two words could end his silence. Two words could end it all. And they were my safe words.

“Fine if you won’t say anything—then I will.” I took a shaky breath, bracing myself to say it. “Black—”

Before I could finish, a hand clamped down on my mouth, stifling my words while I tasted blood on my lips. His face was close to mine, his breath hot against my skin.

“Don’t you dare finish those words, Il Mio.” His voice was cold, detached fury wrapped in velvet.

My heart stuttered, then beat frantically in my chest. I would recognize that cold, sultry voice anywhere, and in any lifetime.

Tears streamed down my face, soaking the blindfold as I choked out, “It’s you. I know it’s you. Why didn’t you say anything? Why?” I asked brokenly, the fear and relief crashing together inside me.

“There’s only so much sh*t—I can take tonight, Il Mio.” He said harshly. “My instructions were explicit. Go home straight after work. But where did I find your defiant *ss? In a car leading straight to your death.”

“I should kill you, Il Mio. I really should. Because since I’ve known you, death is the only thing you’ve courted. And I will give it to you.”

His brutal words were like a healing comfort for my fear—because I would take his wrath over his silence. His hate over his love, and his offering of death over life.

He is my savior and my tormentor. My lover and my poison.

“I’m sorry, Sa—” The pinprick of a needle pierced my neck, cutting off my words and sending me spiralling into the sweetest oblivion.

{Four Years Ago}

"Did you know that life is a recycling process? Even when you stop, the world still goes on." I whispered my question and thoughts into the dark, bitterly warm August night.

I was standing at the edge of the sleek new tallest skyscraper tower in Manhattan—the Valdez Crown. This imposing structure, owned by the powerful Jae-Valdez family, opens tomorrow.

I have chosen tonight, at the top of this building, as my exit from this unforgiving world. No regrets, Annalisa Marilyn Davis. It has been an unforgiving ride, and the world doesn't deserve you.

My shaky breath fogs up the inside of my nose mask as the memory of my mother’s last moment floods my mind. The site of her lifeless body in the bloody water-filled bathtub, with her wrists sl*t, still haunts me dearly, even as I have chosen the same coward’s way out.

“What’s the point? Life was just a series of tragedies, and i