Page 48 of Ruined By Capture

I don't respond. The woman is already taking up too much space in my head.

My arm throbs beneath the bandage. I buck to find a more comfortable position, keeping my injured side up. Despite the exhaustion weighing on my bones, sleep feels distant. The events of the day replay behind my closed eyelids—the car chase, the gunfight, her hands steady as she cleaned my wound.

I check my phone once more, making sure the volume is at maximum. Damiano's security system is state-of-the-art, designed to connect with specific phones each time. The moment anyone breaches the perimeter, an alert will sound. My keys rest beside the phone, within easy reach. If the alarm sounds again we'll be out the door in seconds.

The warehouse creaks and settles around us. Every sound puts me on edge. Raymond's men found us once, they could find us again.

I listen for Melania's breathing to even out, but it doesn't. She's as awake as I am, mind probably jumping about with the same thoughts. Two strangers on thin mattresses, backs turned to each other, both waiting for the next threat.

My hand instinctively checks the gun tucked at my lower back. The metal is cool against my fingertips, reassuring. I've slept with a weapon for so long I can't remember what it feels like not to.

Exhaustion tugs at me but I fight it off. I need to stay alert, ready. Melania's safety depends on me now. The thought should irritate me—I never asked to be responsible for Antonio Lombardi's daughter—but instead, it settles something inside me. Having a clear mission always does.

I force my muscles to relax one by one, a technique I learned years ago. Rest without sleep. The body recovers while the mind stays vigilant.

Across the small space between us Melania's breathing finally begins to slow and deepen. Good. At least one of us will get some actual sleep.

I jolt awake, my heart skittering under my ribs. Sunlight filters through the grimy warehouse windows, casting long shadowsacross the concrete floor. The events of yesterday flood back—the car chase, the gunshots, bandaging Alessio's wound.

Alessio.

I turn toward his mattress, my pulse quickening when I find it empty. The blanket lies rumpled and abandoned. His absence sends a spike of panic through me. Did Raymond's men find us? Did he leave me here?

"Good morning."

The deep voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I whip my head toward the sound and find Alessio sitting in a metal folding chair near one of the windows. He's positioned strategically—back to the wall, clear view of both the entrance and my sleeping area. His gun rests on his thigh, his hand casually draped over it.

"You're here," I breathe, relief washing over me.

His expression remains impassive but there's a flicker in his eyes. "Where else would I be?"

I push myself up to sitting, running fingers through my tangled hair. Alessio looks different this morning—closed off, distant. The man who shared stories about Violet in the darkness has vanished, replaced by the cold enforcer I first met.

"How's your arm?" I ask, nodding toward his bandaged wound.

"Fine." His answer is clipped, final.

He stands, moving with decisive force despite his injury. "We need to start working on the drive."

I nod, gathering my thoughts. "I'll need to rebuild everything from scratch."

"Then you better get to it." He’s all business now. "The longer we take, the more time they have to find us."

"I need to use the bathroom first," I say, pushing myself to my feet.

Alessio gestures toward a door in the corner without comment. He rises from his chair and moves to the makeshift kitchen area, giving me space without being asked. His back is rigid, shoulders set in a hard line.

Last night's conversation hangs between us like smoke—visible but impossible to grasp. Whatever momentary connection we shared has clearly made him uncomfortable. The walls are back up, higher than before.

I watch him for a moment, wondering if mentioning Violet triggered this retreat. Some wounds never fully heal, just scab over enough to allow function. I understand that better than most.

Without another word I head for the bathroom, feeling his eyes track my movement. The enforcer is back on duty, and whatever glimpse I had of the man beneath has been carefully locked away again.

I lock the bathroom door behind me, leaning against it for a moment. The small room is bare—just a toilet, sink, and a cracked mirror that fragments my reflection into jagged pieces. Perfect metaphor for my life right now.

After using the toilet I turn the faucet. The pipes groan before sputtering out a stream of ice-cold water. I cup my hands beneath it, splashing my face and gasping at the shock of cold. It's exactly what I need—something to jolt me fully awake, to clear the fog of sleep and fear.

I stare at my fractured reflection as water drips down my chin. Dark circles shadow my eyes. My hair is a tangled mess. I twist my mother's ring around my finger, taking comfort in its familiar weight.

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