Page 5 of Blackmailed to the Altar

Just when I thought my voice would give out, the car slowed down, and I could hear the sound of a European police or an ambulance. Something. It didn’t sound like it did in the states.

The car stopped, and I heard two doors closing, then small footsteps. As soon as they got close to the trunk, I started screaming all over again.

“PLEASE! GOD, PLEASE, HELP ME. I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED.” I coughed from the force of my cries.

A calm conversation in Italian happened. I’d done the Bodies For Change program when I went to University, and knew the language well because of it. I tried to listen, but grew more and more despondent when there was no yelling. No one was removed from the car. When the voices started laughing, I knew nothing was going to happen. These officers, or whoever they were, would not help me.

The car took off after some more enthusiastic talking. The assholes even tapped the hood of it, to let the driver know they were allowed to move on. I sat in the trunk, wondering how much power my kidnapper wielded.

I didn’t scream again. It seemed a waste of my energy, and I didn’t want my kidnappers to get sick of me and kill me. I was in a different country. I was almost certain it was Italy, from the bits of conversation I’d picked up, and the siren of the car.

I had no resources other than the American Embassy, and they weren’t well known for helping black women in distress. That’s what all my social media said, and while I was a scholar, Ihad a sick obsession with watching what people posted, and the silly dances.

Time went by slowly as I fell deeper into my mind. My box that I kept a lid on was wide open. A collage of my time spent in ‘the spa’, as my parents called it, grew. Before I was labeled a genius, they whispered that I was the crazy girl. My parents locked me away, and threw away the key, until it was time for them to need me. The magazines, the articles they profited from with their genius kid, but no one cared what happened behind the scenes.

Now, I’ve gone no contact; the healthiest outcome for all. Even if I had my own… habits. Things that I couldn’t help doing in order to treat my patients. If someone were to find out, could that be why I was kidnapped?

The car slowed, tires crunching over gravel. The engine cut off, and my fear grew. I held my breath as I heard the footsteps getting closer to me. The trunk opened, revealing the same stranger who was waiting for me outside of my practice.

The air was stale, thick with the faint stench of rubber and gasoline. Every bump had jostled my body against the cold, unforgiving metal, and I was bruised. I tried to orient myself, desperately blinking my surroundings into view. The moment I saw him, my breath caught in my throat. He stood there, looking every bit like he had stepped out of an old-world Italian romance. His dark hair, thick and tousled, framed a face that was nothing short of striking. Each curl seemed meticulously placed, effortlessly adding to his rugged charm.

His eyes, deep and intense, locked onto mine, sending a shiver down my spine. They were a rich brown, like melted chocolate, capable of seeing through all my defenses. The way he looked at me made me feel like I was the only person in the… trunk… as if he could read my very soul.

His face was all sharp angles and firm lines, with a jawline so chiseled it looked like Michelangelo himself could have sculpted it. A slight stubble adorned his cheeks and chin, adding a hint of ruggedness to his otherwise polished appearance. His nose was straight and perfectly proportioned, leading down to lips that were full and inviting, hinting at both strength and sensitivity.

The open collar of his white shirt revealed a glimpse of his muscular neck, and the hint of a muscular chest. A simple silver necklace hung around his neck, its pendant resting just below his collarbone, catching the light and drawing my eyes farther down.

There was an air of quiet confidence about him, a presence that was impossible to ignore. He seemed completely at ease, yet there was an underlying intensity, a smoldering fire that hinted at a deeper, more complex persona. As he stood there, looking at me, I couldn’t help but feel a magnetic pull, an irresistible urge to get closer, to learn more about the man behind those captivating eyes.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, erratic and desperate.

“Hello, firecracker.” He smirked at me.

“W-who are y-you?” My hoarse voice cracked from the misuse during the terrifying drive.

“Your worst nightmare.” He leaned forward and scooped me out of the trunk. He wore gloves, which made his crimes feel more real.

“L-let me go,” I demanded, trying to hide my fear, my voice steady despite the tremor threatening to crack through.

He leaned in, his face uncomfortably close to my own, and his expression shifting from amused to something darker, something possessive. “That will not happen. You and I have unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business?” I scoffed, trying to ignore the tightening fear in my chest. “I’m a psychiatrist, a doctor, not some plaything. This,” I motioned to the ropes binding me in his arms, then motioned to the trunk, and everything else, “is literally insane.”

“Insanity.” He chuckled, the sound low and sinister, sending a chill down my spine. “Funny coming from a psychiatrist. Maybe you can help me with that.”

He was unpredictable, and until I knew more about my situation, I couldn’t anger him. His aura held a dangerous quality about it. He carried me bridal style into an enormous villa. I couldn’t see the property, but I saw the men walking out and about with their guns.

His white top stood stark against the night sky. Peeking out from the collar of his crisp white button-down shirt, just above the first undone button, were jagged patches of scarred skin, remnants of what looked like second-degree burns. They were old, the redness faded to a dull pink, but the texture was unmistakable—raised and uneven. My eyes traced the edges of the scars where they disappeared back under his shirt, the skin puckering slightly as if still healing in places. I wondered briefly how he got them. Was that the reason for his gloved hands as well? I wasn’t going to ask my kidnapper anything though. I needed some answers on where I was and how I got here.

I tried protesting once more. “You think this is going to go the way you want, but it won’t. You think taking me is going to help you? You, sir, are diabolical.”

I looked up into his eyes, but there was no sign of change, no remorse. He didn’t answer right away, just watched me with his calculating eyes as he carted me off. “So sure of yourself, Dr. Rivers. But the games haven’t even begun.”

I clamped my mouth closed, not wanting to antagonize him further. I swallowed hard, my mind racing for an angle, anyangle. I needed to stay sharp. To try to get inside his head before he fucked with mine. If games were something he wanted to play, then he could bring it the fuck on.

I was an original Philadelphia woman who got matched in Virginia, and these men who looked like soldiers, young soldiers, were mafia. A group I thought had been eradicated from the world a long time ago.

With the way the government ran, CCTV surveillance in many countries, and the advancement of technology, I figured organized crime was more of a fairy tale. A cautionary story to tell young women in the hood, so that we would choose a better life for ourselves.

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