Page 87 of Beautifully Broken
“Agreed,” Nonno says. “Let’s get back to the car. We’ll drive the roads near the villa, look for anything suspicious; vans, activity, anything out of place.”
The SUV bumps along the narrow, winding roads of Santorini, the sun dipping low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. I sit in the passenger seat, Daddy driving, while Uncle Tony and Nonno scan the surroundings. The cliffs are dotted with villas, some lit up, others dark, their white walls glowing orange in the twilight. My eyes search for any sign, a black van, a flash of green, a cry for help.
“Slow down,” I say as we near a cluster of villas a half-mile from ours. One catches my eye, set back from the road, partially hidden by olive trees, with a black van parked crookedly in the drive. The windows are dark, curtains drawn, but a faint light flickers inside.
“That’s suspicious,” Uncle Tony says, leaning forward. “No one parks like that unless they’re in a rush.”
“Trying to hurry and get a victim out of the van and inside,” Nonno adds, his voice calm but tense. “Sasha, we need to be smart. If she’s in there, we can’t just barge in. We don’t know who’s inside or what they’re capable of.”
“I know,” I say, my hands trembling with adrenaline. “We call the police, but we can’t wait for them to get here. If she’s in danger right now, every second counts. We scope it out quietly. If we hear or see anything, we act.”
I know for a fact my men can hold their own; we’ve done it before.
Daddy parks a safe distance away, hidden by a curve in the road. “Sasha, stay close to me. Tony, you and Dad check the perimeter. We listen, we look, but we don’t engage unless we have to. Got it?”
“Got it,” Uncle Tony says, already slipping out of the car, his construction-honed strength making him move with surprising stealth.
Nonno nods, his green eyes sharp. “Stay safe, piccolina. We’ll signal if we find anything.”
I follow Daddy, my heart pounding as we creep toward the villa, staying low behind bushes and stone walls. The air is warm, scented with wild herbs, then a faint sound comes from the house: a muffled cry, sharp and desperate, then silence.
“Did you hear that?” I whisper, gripping Daddy’s arm.
He nods, his jaw tight. “Yeah. Stay here. I’ll check the window.”
“No way,” I hiss, following him. “We’re in this together.”
He sighs, knowing he can’t argue with me.
We edge closer, crouching beneath a window. The curtains are thick, but a sliver of light escapes, and I hear it again; a woman’s voice, choked, pleading.
“Please, let me go! My father—”
“Shut up!” a man’s voice snaps, harsh and accented. A slap rings out, followed by a whimper. My blood runs cold, memories of Trevor flooding back—his hands, his threats, my terror. I shove them down, focusing on Lena.
Daddy’s eyes meet mine, urgent. “She’s in there. We need to move fast.”
Uncle Tony and Nonno rejoin us, breathing hard. “Two men inside, maybe three,” Uncle Tony whispers. “Back door’s unlocked, but there’s a guy smoking out front. Looks rough—big, probably armed.”
“We can’t wait,” I say, my voice shaking but determined. “She’s in danger right now. We take the smoker out quietly, get inside, get her out. Then we call the police.”
“Sasha, this is risky,” Nonno warns, but his tone isn’t stopping me; it’s assessing. “If we do this, we need a plan. Anthony, you’re the muscle here. Can you handle the guy out front?”
“Piece of cake,” Uncle Tony says, cracking his knuckles. “Give me ten seconds.”
“Gene, you and I go for the back door,” Nonno continues. “Sasha, you stay behind us. Look for Lena, but don’t take chances. We get her, we get out, we call the police.”
I nod, adrenaline surging. “Let’s do it.”
Uncle Tony moves like a shadow, slipping toward the front. We hear a muffled grunt, a thud, then silence. Uncle Tony reappears, nodding.
“He’s out. Tied him up with his own belt. Go.”
We creep to the back door, Daddy easing it open. The villa’s interior is dim, cluttered, with furniture overturned, a glass broken on the floor. My heart pounds as we move through a narrow hall, the sounds of struggle growing louder.
A man’s voice growls, “You’ll fetch a good price, girl. Stop fighting.”
Rage and fear collide in my chest. We round a corner, and there she is, Lena, blonde hair disheveled, wrists bound, a bruise blooming on her cheek. Two men loom over her, one holding a rope, the other a phone, barking orders in a language I don’t understand.
