Page 4 of Bianchi

I close my eyes, forcing my body to sink into the anticipation of what's to come. This is how it ends? A bullet through the back of the head from a man I don’t know? Maybe that isn’t his plan at all. He could have killed me already.

Scenarios run through my mind, each one becoming more and more violent. Can I get out of here alive? Do I even want to? I dismiss the last question before it fully forms. Obviously, I want to get out of here. But trying to fight him will use up strength that I might need to preserve, because even without seeing him, I know he’ll overpower me. The thought sends a ripple of awareness down my spine, but I fight against it, holding my body still. A light sheen of sweat coats my upper lip, and I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands, the pain a welcome distraction.

The cocktail of fear and powerlessness slides its way through my body, stiffening my limbs and crushing my posture. There’s going to be no way out of here alive.

I harden my expression, unwilling to show him any fear, and wait for his next move. Fighting him might make the end come quicker, but there would be no dignity in it, and although I could scream, in this building, nobody would come. I’m on my own now. I’ll meet my maker with peace in my heart, even if the devil is the one pushing me out of existence.

I thought I’d have more uncertainty; more of a will to live when the end came. All I feel is acceptance and a desire to be free. I push my head back onto the barrel, silently begging him to pull the trigger.

A dark chuckle reverberates in his chest. He’s teasing me. The pieces slip into place like dominoes falling. Killing me quickly doesn’t give him what he needs or what he came for. He’s going to drag this out until I’m begging him to end it.

I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

He might have orders, but there will be no pleas falling from my lips today. Whoever has sent this mobster will be sorely disappointed.

Inhaling deeply, his expensive cologne sends a frisson of awareness to my core. God, what is wrong with me? I hold my breath, refusing to dwell on the fact that his scent is both arousing and comforting at the same time. It’s irrelevant to my life being taken.

He moves closer, but still manages to keep his body away from mine. The movement pushes the gun harder against my skull. The baritone of his voice feels deeper now, commanding and calm, when he says, “No sudden movements, bellissima. We’re going into the living room.”

I swallow thickly, turning toward the door. He remains out of my eyeline as he follows behind me. My movements are slow and cautious, as if I’m pushing through treacle; each step harder than the last as we walk.

Frowning, I tilt my head as I come to a stop on the edge of the living room. One of the chairs from the table in the kitchen is positioned in front of the large bay window. I rented this apartment for that window and how the morning light spills in through it. It doesn’t make much sense to kill me there, not when anyone could potentially witness it. Maybe that’s the point. He wants to make a show of my death.

Biting down on my lip, my eyes dart over to the chair I usually sit in to read—my mom’s armchair. It’s been carelessly pushed to the side, and now, instead of facing the window, it’s pointing into the room. Heat flushes through my body, and I noisily blow out a breath. His lack of care for my possessions is angering me more than his presence in my home.

A nudge to my back propels me forward and out of my own head. I stumble over my feet, but his large hand wraps around my elbow, halting me. A zing jolts through me from the contact, and I suck in a breath before snatching my arm back. What the fuck was that?

I move through the room, my chin held high. Sliding into the chair, I focus on the rain falling just beyond the windowpane. The sky is gray and overcast, adding to the ominous feeling filling the room and threatening to suffocate me.

Moving into my line of sight, he blocks my view. The glow from the street lamps outside illuminate the room enough for me to see his face for the first time. I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile the handsome man standing in front of me with the acts I know he’s here to commit.

His hair is slicked back, curling at the collar of his shirt and his intense dark eyes—they almost look demonic—are framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. We hold each other's gaze until I can’t take anymore and drop my focus to the muscle ticking in his stubbled jaw. My eyes move to his mouth and the fullness of his lips before I force myself to look away.

Even the clothes he’s wearing are very fitting for the role he’s here to fulfill. A black shirt, with a silk-looking waistcoat covering his torso. His sleeves are rolled up, the corded muscles of his forearms a further reminder of the power he exudes.

His movements are meticulous as he picks up a roll of duct tape and begins to secure me to the chair. I consider making a move to try and take the other gun from the black leather holster secured to his chest, but think better of it. Instead, I return my attention to the window, a million questions on the tip of my tongue fighting to be voiced.

Who is he?

What does he want from me?

How did he get into my apartment?

Will he take his time or put me out of my misery before I’ve had a chance to say a word?

The sound of tape being pulled brings my attention back to him, and I watch, fascinated, as he puts it between his straight, white teeth and rips. A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, and I look away, huffing out a breath. This isn’t even remotely funny.

Without a word, his fingers thrust into my hair, and he jerks my head back. The sting remains, even after he’s released me. He covers my mouth with the tape and moves to the armchair, sinking into the cushions. His posture is relaxed and sure, like he has no qualms about his reason for being here.

I might be in a compromised position, with my feet and hands bound, and tape covering my mouth, but I’m still feeding off his energy. I’m not fearful. My heart isn’t racing and the adrenaline that was there when I first got home is now gone. I feel almost serene.

When I was a kid, I had moments of wondering what death would feel like. The thoughts alone would terrify me, but right now, I’m not scared. I’m not worried about the agonizing murder this monster no doubt has planned for me. No. I embrace it.

I welcome him dragging me into the pits of hell and ending my nonexistence. Ending the life I’ve wasted, running from my demons, and hiding like a coward. Perhaps I should be promising to do more, to be more, if I can just get out of this mess, but there’s no point.

The end is inevitable, whether I go today or in fifty years.

For the longest time, he sits quietly in the corner of the room, hidden in the shadows. Watching me. I try to block him out, using the time to make peace with myself. The gentle patter of rain against the window soothes me as I reflect on my life. There are so many things I could have done differently, but what’s done is done. There’s nothing left for me to do but accept where I went wrong and let go of the hate and resentment that I’ve held on to for far too long.

---