25
My heart pounded in my chest as I felt the door to the back seat creak open. The cold of the night air hit me first, cutting through the oppressive heat trapped in the truck, and then I felt it—Dominic’s presence, close, too close.
I stiffened instinctively. The bag over my head robbed me of sight, heightening every sound, every movement. I held my breath, waiting.
It wasn’t until his hands brushed against me—firm and unapologetic—that I finally reacted.
“Watch where you touch!” I snapped, wriggling against his grip. “I could be someone’s wife.”
A low chuckle escaped him, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric.
“But you’re not,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Thirty and not even a boyfriend. How convenient.”
The words stung, not because they were true, but because they came from him—the one person who had no right to throw them in my face.
“I go on dates—” I started, embarrassed beyond comprehension. And then, a cold realization settled in my gut. “Wait… have you been stalking me?”
He didn’t answer, but his silence said everything.
“Dominic,” I hissed, my voice rising. “Answer me!”
Still nothing. Instead, I felt him shift, his hands gripping me more firmly. Without warning, he pulled me off the seat, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
“Hey! I can walk, you know!” I protested, twisting in his grasp. But he didn’t slow down. As he moved, my head slammed against the doorframe with a sharp thud. “Shit!” I yelped, a sharp sting radiating from my temple.
“Stop squirming,” he said flatly, as if I were a child.
“Stop manhandling me!” I shot back, my voice edged with both pain and fury.
He didn’t respond, didn’t apologize. He simply tightened his grip, dragging me out of the truck and setting me unceremoniously on the ground. The gravel crunched beneath my bare feet, cold and pricking as I began walking. I swayed slightly, disoriented, like a toddler learning to walk, but Dominic didn’t let me stumble. His hands steadied me, around my shoulders as I walked, his hold firm.
“You didn’t have to slam my head like that,” I muttered, my tone sharp despite the dull ache ebbing at my temples.
“You didn’t have to make this difficult,” he countered, his voice as cold as ever.
I opened my mouth to retort, but he cut me off.
“Keep talking, Eleanor,” he said softly, almost too softly. “See where it gets you.”
That shut me up, at least for the moment.
We continued walking for what seemed like forever. The only sounds within a mile were crickets chirping and granite crunching beneath my feet and Dominic’s shoes. My legs were starting to become sore, but each time I slowed to a walk, Dominic would tighten his hold on my shoulders, and I was forced to continue.
The walk lenghtened on, feeling like forever, till I stopped and refused to move. Though blinded by my bag, I knew Dominic tensed up. “Keep walking,” he ordered, stern, tense.
I stayed rooted in place. "I can't," I said, my voice trembling but firm.
Dominic’s hand shifted slightly on my shoulder, his grip tightening just enough to make me flinch. “You \*can,\* and you \*will,\*” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I bit my lip, considering my options. Blind, tired, and with no idea where we were heading, there wasn’t much I could do. Still, something in me refused to back down entirely. "I need a minute," I muttered, hoping for some humanity. “I’m sick.”
It wasn’t completely a lie.
For a moment, silence hung heavy between us. Then, he let out a sharp breath, his fingers loosening just slightly. “Fine. One minute,” he said grudgingly.
I let out a shaky breath of relief but didn’t relax. Dominic was tense, his every movement radiating impatience. I could sense him scanning our surroundings, his attention flickering between the unseen threat that seemed to chase us and me, the reluctant burden he had to drag along.
“Why are we doing this?” I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his words were short. “Because there’s no turning back. Not for either of us.”
The wooden floor creaked under my feet as we stepped inside, the rough chill of the night replaced by a sudden wave of warmth. It wasn’t much, but compared to the cold outside, it felt like stepping into heaven. The relief was short-lived, though. Dominic shoved me into a chair with enough force to make me wince.
I didn’t complain. I couldn’t. My wrists were tied too tight, my head was pounding, and my stomach churned with fear. I was hanging by a thread when he finally pulled the bag off my head.
The air felt sharp and sweet against my face. I gulped it down greedily, blinking at the dim room around me. Dominic loomed over me, his intense gaze pinning me in place. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead and temples, and his brows were furrowed into a deep scowl.
“Now you stay quiet,” he ordered, straightening to his full height. He was tall—too tall—and his presence filled the room as he stepped back. “Don’t do anything stupid until I’m back.”
I couldn’t help myself. “I can’t make promises, princess,” I shot back, a smug smile tugging at my lips.
His jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his face, but he didn’t reply. He turned and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
The space around me was barely lit, the lightbulbs overhead casting a tacky orange-yellow glow that made everything look worse. The room was cramped and reeked of mildew, the wooden walls worn and covered with makeshift drapes that looked like old towels. A small center table was cluttered with tools—wrenches, pliers, things I couldn’t name.
It smelled like rot, like damp wood and decay, the kind of place no one should have to live in. And yet, it seemed like Dominic did.
My chest ached with a strange, overwhelming sadness. Dominic Torres—son and only heir of one of the wealthiest Mafia families in the world—was living here? His father had been dead for over twelve years, his family’s fortune combined with mine had sustained me for the last decade. Ten years of living quietly, discreetly, in luxury—bouncing between vacation houses and penthouse condos, blending in to survive.
And Dominic? He’d been surviving in this dump. Alone, it seemed.
I wanted to cry. For him, for me, for whatever brought us back to this moment, where nothing about the lives we should’ve had was real anymore.
I barely had time to process the heaviness in my chest when the door creaked open again. Dominic stepped inside, his frame filling the doorway, but it wasn’t just him. Someone was with him.
At first, I couldn’t see past Dominic’s broad shoulders. Just a shadow, smaller but steady, lingering behind him. My stomach twisted in a knot as the figure moved forward, stepping into the dim, tacky light.
And then I saw him.
The air was ripped from my lungs, leaving me gasping like I’d been punched. My chest ached, my heart thundering in disbelief. It couldn’t be—it \*shouldn’t\* be. But it was.
A sound escaped me, raw and broken, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. My body started shaking, and I couldn’t stop it. Tears blurred my vision, but it didn’t matter. I would have recognized him anywhere.
He looked different now—hardened. His golden-blonde hair was still there, but it no longer had that unruly, carefree charm I remembered. His face, once so full of life, was colder, sharper. And the scar—it carved across his cheek, deep and angry, a brutal reminder of that night.
I wanted to say something. Anything. But my lips wouldn’t work. My voice caught in my throat, strangled by the weight of everything I’d thought I’d lost.
He stood there, staring at me, his eyes unreadable. The innocence that had always made him seem younger, even though he was older, was gone. It had been replaced with something hard, unyielding.
And then he spoke.
“Hi, Ellie.”
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, and it broke me.
The sobs came fast and violent, racking my body as tears spilled down my face. I couldn’t hold them back if I tried. Ten years of grief, of guilt, of wishing I could trade places with him, all came pouring out in that moment.
I wanted to run to him, to hold him, to tell him how sorry I was. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place, bound by the crushing weight of everything that had been left unsaid, of every night I had spent mourning him, blaming myself.
He was alive.
But he wasn’t the same. The brother I remembered—the one who used to tease me until I laughed, who always made me feel safe—wasn’t standing in front of me.
This was someone else. Someone colder. Someone broken.
And I couldn’t tell if it was the scar on his face or the look in his eyes that hurt more. .
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