Page 42 of Ruined By Capture

The engine purrs to life as I start the car, my eyes scanning the mirrors for any sign of pursuit. Nothing yet but I don't trust this calm.

"We need to move," I say, shifting into gear and pulling away from the motel. The tires crunch over loose stone as we exit onto the main road.

Melania's fingers drum against her bare thigh—a subtle tell of her anxiety despite her composed face. She glances at the dashboard, then at me.

"Would it be alright if we had some music?" she asks, deliberately casual. "It helps me relax."

I arch an eyebrow, surprised by the request. "Pick whatever you want," I tell her with a shrug. "I don't mind."

She reaches for the audio controls, hesitating briefly before selecting a station. A soft piano melody fills the car, something classical.

I keep my eyes on the road but my mind catalogs this new information with ridiculous precision. Melania Lombardi likes classical music when she's anxious. Another detail to add to the growing file in my head.

For fuck's sake. I've never cared what anyone likes or why. Women have come and gone from my life without leaving a trace of their preferences in my memory. I couldn't tell you if my last hookup preferred red or white wine, let alone what type of music calmed her nerves.

Yet every detail falling from Melania's lips—coffee with one sugar, carbonara with extra pepper, classical music when stressed—gets fucking engraved in my brain like scripture. Her preferences feel more important than operational details I've spent years memorizing.

The realization irritates me. I'm cataloging her likes and dislikes as if they're critical intelligence. As if knowing exactly how she takes her coffee might save my life someday.

Melania adjusts the volume slightly lower, then settles back in her seat. Her eyes close briefly as she inhales deeply, the music visibly easing some tension from her shoulders.

I force my attention back to the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. This woman is a job. Nothing more.

So why does my mind treat every fragment of information about her like it's fucking gospel?

A gentle pressure on my shoulder pulls me back to reality.

"Melania." His voice almost gentle. "We're here."

The gentle sway of the car and the soothing notes of Chopin lulled me into an unexpected sleep. My body surrendered to exhaustion despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

I blink awake, disoriented. The classical music still plays softly through the speakers. He never changed it.

"How long was I asleep?" My voice comes out raspy.

"About an hour." Alessio's eyes scan our surroundings, ever vigilant. "This is our new location."

I straighten up, wiping sleep from my eyes as I get my bearings. We're parked behind what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. The building looms before us—a massive brick structure with boarded windows and walls stained with decadesof urban grime. Graffiti marks the exterior like territorial claims and rust bleeds from metal fixtures like old wounds.

Alessio exits first, checking the perimeter before opening my door. The night air hits me with the stench of urban decay—motor oil, garbage and the metallic tang of pollution.

"Stay close," he instructs, guiding me toward a rusted side door barely visible in the shadows.

The door opens with a reluctant groan. Alessio ushers me inside, locking it behind us. He flicks on a small flashlight, illuminating our path through the cavernous space.

My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. The warehouse interior is mostly empty—a vast concrete floor stretching into shadows, steel support beams rising like sentinels, and high ceilings where pigeons roost among exposed pipes. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness, announcing our presence to the rats that scurry along the walls.

"This way," Alessio directs, leading me toward the back corner.

As we approach I notice a sectioned-off area—a makeshift living space created with hanging sheets and packing cases. The contrast to our previous safehouse is stark. No luxury here, just bare survival.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

Alessio's eyes find mine in the dim light. "It's not the Ritz, but it's safe for now."

He pulls back a hanging sheet to reveal the ‘living quarters’—two mattresses on wooden pallets, a hot plate, mini-fridge, and a small table with folding chairs. A single bulb dangling from a wire provides meager illumination. Through another partition I glimpse a toilet and sink that have seen better decades.

"The bathroom's basic," Alessio explains, following my gaze. "Cold water only."

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