Page 1 of Inferno

Prologue

CHARLOTTE

10 years ago.

Chicago.

Just as Mom is cutting into my chocolate birthday cake, a resounding knock batters on our front door. I jump up and my father’s face pales.

“No,” he whispers.

“Who is it?” I ask. I don’t have time for distractions, today is my black belt grading day.

A stern look washes over his features as he hunts through the cupboard, retrieving a gun.

“Dad! What the hell? You’re scaring me.”

Mom wraps her arm around me and hugs me close, just as another flurry of aggressive pounding echoes through the house.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully. In my dressing room, behind the shoes, there’s a keypad to a safe room. The code is your mom’s birthday. Go.” His voice almost cracks.

“Tell me what’s happening! Why do you have a gun?” Tears stream down my face.

All my life I’ve been sheltered. Homeschooled. Martial arts was my only escape to a normal teenage life. We moved to Chicago after my sixth birthday. I always wondered why I was different. I was kept away from the real world. I used to watch kids playing outside and get upset that I couldn’t go.

But the fear on my father’s face tells me everything as he brushes a shaky hand through his graying hair.

He steps forward and grips my shoulder tightly.

“I love you, Charlotte. I’m proud of you.”

It sounds so…final.

“Go!” he bellows and points to the ceiling.

Holding on to Mom tightly, we race through the hallway. As we reach the stairs, we come to a halt as the air vibrates from the heavy blows.

“Shit. Run!” I shout, dragging Mom behind me.

I’m just to the top of the landing as the front door crashes open. My mother’s screams rip through the air. I feel leather gloves on my bicep, and I use all my force to rip my arm away from his grip.

As I turn, I stare into devious black eyes. His hand shoots out and I duck. Swiping his feet from under him with my leg, he tumbles down the stairs. My lungs burn as I run as fast as I can to my father’s room, slamming it shut behind me. Flinging open the doors to the wardrobe, I head to the shoes.

“Fuck, where’s the keypad?”

Taking a breath, I scan the surroundings from top to bottom, looking for something out of place.

The gray shelves stand out from the white ones. As I look closer, they come out further than the others. Standing in front of it, I shove the boots from the center onto the floor, revealingthe number pad and start to jab in the digits with my trembling fingers.

“Come on, Charlotte,” I hiss.

As I hit the second to last button, the door creaks open.

“Little bitch.” The distinctive Russian accent turns my blood to ice. I step back, holding up my arms when I see the gun in his right hand.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper.

A sadistic smirk spreads on his lips as he stomps towards me, grabbing me by the back of the neck and pressing the muzzle against my temple.

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