I think he's in New York City.

Once again, three dots appear, but this time he sends me one text that reeks of his disapproval.

That is not funny.

I disagree.

I find it hilarious.

I can practically hear his tired sigh, and when something other than amusement crawls into my chest as I think of how I'd just fucked with his concern, I know it's time to shut off my phone.

I debate asking my father why he'd summoned me back to the city I desperately clawed my way out of, but I decide I really didn't want to know.

The man was a mobster, and behind his pleasant smiles was a world of crime. A world I decided to leave behind when I moved away for college.

I didn't value the power my Italian side of the family held in the world of criminal activity.

I was better than all that. All of them.

I craved real power, influence over the masses. Violence and threats were so mainstream and lacked any creativity. I wanted to instill fear through mind games and manipulation. I wanted the most powerful people to force polite smiles to my face while they buzzed with unease in my presence.

The last thing I needed was my name associated with a notorious crime family. Especially when my goal was to have it tied to politicians, royals, and all the other elite of the world.

So when I was at Oxford, I wasn't Celina Ademaro, daughter of Silvio Ademaro - the only living founder of the Galanti crime family. I was Lina Ayad, granddaughter of an assassinated Egyptian President, turned middle-class scholarship student, making a name for herself at Oxford University.

And just as my mind begins to spiral into just how much of a shit show my life is, I can't help but feel a pair of bug eyes on me.

"Fix your staring problem," I mutter, not bothering to spare a glance up at the man who's standing so close that if I were to glance up, I'd be able to make out his puny little brain through his fat nostrils. "It's unnerving."

The man doesn't respond, nor do I particularly give a shit as I hold up my empty glass. "Make yourself useful and fetch me another glass while you're at it."

I wasn't normally this much of a bitch. I was more into subtle domination, but my father's men brought out the worst in me.

When I have yet to feel the man take my glass, I finally look up at him.

"I'm not here to wait on you." The man grits out carefully, and I can't pin what's wrong with his voice, but I don't care.

"Agreed." I don't drop my hand. "You're here to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do." I trail my eyes across his pale, angry face. "And unless you want your tiny testicles hanging off the wing of my private jet, I suggest you stop your bitching."

His eyes narrow briefly as they move towards the gold band on my ring finger. "It is not your private jet."

His puny little brain was still stuck on semantics.

"It's my father's." A patronising smile graces my lips as I hold the ring up between us. "So is this."

Any man who worked for my papà would recognize Silvio Ademaro's ring. It'd been a gift from Ricardo Galanti himself on their first big milestone.

"Pretty, isn't it?" It glints beneath the light, and the man remains silent, seething but that's all he can do because this small piece of gold is a reminder of my seniority, something I intent to exploit to its full potential.

He scowls at it. "It'll also look just as good after I've informed my father what an incompetent man he's hired and then use your own gun to shoot up your nostrils into that pea-sized brain of yours."

I wouldn't ever do that. Guns weren't my forte, but he didn't need to know that, and by the annoyance oozing off him, he believes my lie.

The man's entire body is rigid as he takes my glass and walks towards the bar, while I lean back and watch him. That is, until my gaze moves to the four other bodies at the bar, specifically to the bodyguard chatting up the flight attendant.

He's tall, built, somewhat attractive. Much like the other men who worked under my papà. Only his complexion, along with his features, is far lighter.

But that's not what grabs my attention. It's his body language and how he doesn't seem the least bit interested in the flight attendant. It's clear in the way his eyes glaze over when she talks, and his gaze stays above her head.

Yet he's still dragging the conversation on.

Perhaps he's bored or wants to get his dick wet, but the way his body language doesn't add up piques my interest.

His expression is mirrored by the other bodyguard, and I mean that quite literally, seeing as he seems to be a carbon copy of the first.

Brothers. Twins.

Just as I'm about to speak, the man with the staring problem returns, holding out my champagne glass.

Finally.

I take it, bring the glass to my lips, and peek up at him from my seated position. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

The death stare he sends me warms my cold little heart enough to take a generous sip. "Are you Italian's always so condescending?"

I narrow my eyes at him, more concerned with the fact that he's not Italian than with his pathetic insult. "Only to people who cannot clearly think on their own."

He mutters something under his breath.

"Your accent." I get comfortable in my seat and swirl what's left of my drink in my glass, "Where is it from?"

He side eyes me, his voice odd-sounding like he's downplaying his accent. "I don't have an accent."

I'd laugh if my guard hadn't begun to slowly rise. "You're a shit liar."

I lean over and reach a hand into my bag. The action draws the attention of all the men on the plane. The one nearest to me tenses, and the twins at the bar slowly drop their hands to their waistbands.

My fingers latch onto cool metal, and when I slowly lift it out of my bag, they all take a step forward, only to stop when I pull out my barrette.

I occupy myself with clipping a chunk of my hair back, while the man's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch until he's confident enough to fix me with a smug look.

"Russia." His mouth forms a sneer, and he drops the act, his accent extremely thick. "My accent is from Russia."

I don't speak, I pin him with a glare before movement from the end of the plane catches my attention, and I'm forced to watch the two twin brothers slit the throats of the flight attendants.

I open my mouth to speak, but can't bring myself to say anything, nor can I force my instincts to kick in fast enough.

It's like everything's happening in slow motion, and I'm falling right into the trap they want.

My lazy gaze moves to the glass in my hand, and I squint at the remaining bubbly liquid before my fingers loosen, allowing it to slip right through them and shatter onto the floor.

Shit.

I can't hear what they're saying, nor do I process any of what's going on; all I can do is stare at the satisfied gleam in his bug eyes until finally, I'm submerged into the void.

Ah shit.

Karma really is a bitch.

Celina

Hangovers were only bearable because I woke up knowing that I'd consented to the god-awful feeling in exchange for a night of getting completely shit faced.

This hangover, however, was not something I'd consented to.

Perhaps it was the withdrawal from whatever they'd drugged me with, but a bolt of movement causes the walls around me to shake. Walls that seem far too close for my liking, in a space that's far too dark for me to be sure.

Things continue to rattle, a hum similar to that of rubber skidding on asphalt filters through the walls.

I try to move my limbs only to realize my hands are tied, so are my ankles in the same way a roasted pig is, only instead of an apple shoved into my mouth, it's a dirty rag.

A muffled voice drifts into my ears, the sound staticky yet clear enough for me to recognize that it's coming from a radio. It's not long before the broadcaster's voice reiterates the exact radio station, and when I recognize it, I know we're not only driving, but we're in the city.

These assholes put me in a trunk.

And as if my day can't get any worse, I wiggle my toes, only feeling the tight leather of the Louboutin on my left foot, my right missing.

I'd spent an entire week breaking in those pumps, and they'd finally gotten comfortable.

God, this shit sucked.

With a newfound sense of annoyance, I spit the rag out of my mouth, reach my tied hands up into my hair, and grab my barrette.

Not only was it made of gold with my initials carved in diamonds, but beneath the metallic clasp lay a space for a small Swiss knife.

It takes me a mere moment to maneuver my hands, pop open the blade, and cut through the rope before I do the same to the rope tying my ankles.

I hadn't even landed in New York, and this low-life shit was already dragging me down into it.

A wave of homesickness hits me right in the stomach. I missed Oxford.

There I wasn't dealing with wannabe criminals stooping so low as to drug me into submission. I was dealing with self-obsessed, back-stabbing narcissists.

They were all slimy and manipulative, my type of crazy.

These men were amateurs at best, and I'm proven right when I lift the bottom mat of the trunk, reach into the spare tire compartment, and pat my hand around the various tools, stopping when my hand comes in contact with a thick metal bar.

There's a reason my papá taught me about cars, and it had everything to do with learning how I could find weapons if I were ever trapped in one. The car jack is the most obvious one of them all.

Like I said, amateurs.

It's not long before the car comes to a halt, and then the familiar sound of footfall is heard.

I press my ear to the frame.

One, two, three.

Three men are approaching me, and if I remember correctly, two are identical blonds, and the other is a fat, nostrilled inept Shrek. All of which were easily double my size, but I had the element of surprise to my advantage.

"Ty uveren, chto ona pravil'naya?" A voice filters through the metal frame of the trunk, and it's times like this where I regret not knowing every language known to man. (Russian| You sure she's the right one?)

"On budet imet' nashi golovy, yesli ona ne." This voice is of another male, his voice fading into the back of my mind as the trunk is cranked over, and a sliver of light streams in, illuminating the space.

(Russian| he'll have our heads if she isn't)

My eyes burn as I push past the sting and adjust to the sight of three male crotches before me.

It's almost as pleasant as the utter confusion I hear in one of their voices. "ty che, blyad-" (Russian|What the fuck-)

I kick my foot out. The one still occupied by my high heel, and drive it into the first crotch I see.

It's one of the twins that goes down first, doubling over with a surprised choke. The millisecond of surprise on the other two gives me enough time to swing the crowbar in my hand blindly.

This time it's inept Shrek that goes down, clutching his crotch as he falls to the floor with a loud cry.

I'm left with one man who lunges for me. But I'm faster as I roll out of the trunk, kick off my heel, and turn towards the last man standing.

Not for long.

"If you're going to kidnap someone," I lurch forward and jam the crowbar into the place behind his knee until his large weight goes crashing onto the floor. The gravel is hot beneath my bare feet as I walk up to the man who's now forced on his knees before me. "At least have the decency to know your victim."

He sneers up at me, "Fuck yo-"

His skull doesn't crack when I hit him upside the head; he merely topples onto the ground, and when I bend down, hold my fingers against his neck, and feel the dull throb of his pulse, I frown at the crowbar in my hand.

That didn't kill him.

Disappointment washes down the adrenaline.

The years I'd spent away from this life were years I'd spent away from training, sharpening my skills, and strengthening my body.

Was I losing my touch?

Anxiety begins to take its deadly course as the knowledge of what this means settles. I'm vulnerable.

I wasn't at my best anymore.

Not when they'd been able to kidnap me in the first place, not when I couldn't do something as simple as kill a man with a crowbar and a good swing.

I've lost my touch. I'm... weaker -physically, that is. My mind is far too sharp to ever deviate from its course. But the fact of the matter is clear: I need to get the fuck out of here.

I wasn't someone who ever ran from a fight, but I also wasn't a complete dumbass who didn't know when to put their pride aside to survive.

And right now, if I wanted to survive, I needed to run.

I assess my surroundings before I make any move.

I'm on a driveway, a long one, on a property that spans acres of land, if not more. And if that's not a clear enough indication that I'm nowhere near the city, all that can be heard is the faint trickling of water. Everything else is still.

I spot a large fountain in the centre of the roundabout and take off towards it. I alllow myself to slump against the old stone once I slip into a crevice I know I won't be seen in as I look to the long path leading up to what I can imagine is a gate.

The intricate stone of the driveway is littered with overgrown grass, weeds, and plants, all growing through its crevices. Mature trees line the perimeter on either side of the long, lonely road, and the only hint of the gate I'm rewarded with is through the trees.

I begin to mentally calculate my chances of making it down the path successfully, and when I realize they're slim, I look for another way out.

I peek around the cement fountain littered in moss and overgrown vines to the monstrosity of a house, looming darkly against the summer sky.

The beast of a place is completely dark, with no signs of upkeep recent enough to be considered in this decade. It's all dead, aside from the ivy trickling up the exterior, swallowing the brick beneath.

The longer I look at it, the larger the structure becomes, surpassing the term mansion.

It was far too grand, its age far too ancient, and the wealth buried beneath the poison ivy far, far too imposing.

It was a fucking castle.

One that'd work as a perfect prison, and one that'd bore me to tears if I'd been locked away in it.

I realize my only chance at getting the fuck out of here is the long way down to the gate.

It's not long before I take off in a sprint, down the driveway that stretches agonizingly long. Seconds drift into minutes of sprinting at full speed before I've reached a point where I'm able to get a closer look at plotting my escape.

But the soft kiss I've briefly shared with freedom slaps me right across the face because if there's one thing that's been maintained, it's the fifteen-foot wrought iron gate.

Lined in what appears to be bulletproof steel and armed with not one, two, three, but four security cameras, all turned and pointed down at little old me.

A frustrated noise escapes from beneath my breath.

I was going to milk this excuse into never returning to New York for the rest of my life. That is, if I ever get out of this fucking place.

In a moment of extreme anger, I allow myself a moment to frankly lose my shit.

And by lose my shit, I mean jack the crow bar in my hand up at the first camera I see. It smashes into tiny little pieces while the crowbar drops back to the floor.

I pick it up and do the same to two more cameras before it gets trapped between the bars, stopping me from breaking the last one.

And that's when the sound of footfall sounds in the far distance, while I can do nothing but stand there, barefoot, while the lone standing camera watches me.

But instead of showing whoever the fuck is hiding behind the screen that they've won, I smile up at it and send whoever the fuck I know is watching me a big fuck you with both my hands.

In retaliation, the asshole behind the camera strikes in the form of a pinch to my arm. Only it proves to be far worse than I'd imagined when I look down to see the tip of a vile lodged into my skin. The same type of vile you'd use to take down a large animal.

Horse tranquilizer.

There was arguably no sentiment I shared with my Italian side of the family, but that changes when I realize we've suddenly got one thing in common, our hatred for Russians.

. . .

I was thirteen when my papà started drugging me, but twelve when my jido did it.

As wrong as that may sound, it'd been out of love, entirely for my own benefit.

My jido had an odd way of showing his love, and my papá was far too paranoid for his own good. I was born with a target on my back and two powerful men who had no one else to love but me.

Not only did I need to be faster, smarter, and better than anyone who'd want to bring me harm, but I needed to remain underestimated. And speeding up my body's reaction time to sedatives was part of said process.

It was always controlled and relatively safe. My grandfather studied chemistry in university, and seeing as I didn't develop any permanent health issues, it was good enough proof that their methods -although unorthodox - worked.

I'd been hit with a variety of sedative tranquilizers, and while the headaches, confusion, muscle numbness, and nausea sucked, it made my reaction time three times faster than that of a regular human.

It also proved to work in my favour more often than not, especially when the dumbasses around me hadn't done their homework.

My sense of consciousness returns to me just as quickly as I begin to assess my surroundings. A set of hands is at my back, handling my wrists as they bind them, but two voices are speaking.

I don't bother trying to make out what they're saying and instead, focus on working up the strength to move my numb muscles.

Despite my frozen limbs, my body's ability to sense touch isn't gone, which proves to be even more satisfying when I realize just how much of a shitty knot this dumbass is tying my hands in.

I have to fight back a smile.

"mogu ya razbudit' yeye?" This voice is that of a woman's, and all thoughts of smiling vanish in the next moment as the harsh sting of a palm against my cheek forces my head to the side and my eyes to snap open. (Russian| can I wake her up?)

Anger slowly clogs every pore in my body, while I can do nothing but slowly turn my head to the blonde bitch staring down at me, a smug look in her eyes. "You'll pay for that." I seethe.

Like an overweight horse, she makes a mhmp noise and tilts her head in amusement to the person next to her. I follow her gaze to see the inept Shrek, who's looking at her in a mix of awe and amusement.

Gross.

Had it not been for the way my fingers began to twitch, I'd gag at their antics. But my mood is uplifted by the events of my muscles waking up.

I smile weakly at the girl. "I wonder how well that smile will hold up after I've used your long, dried-up hair as a noose around your neck and watched you die a painful death." The thought strengthens my smile while it wipes hers.

With a glare, she lifts her hand and makes a move to slap me, but doesn't follow through with it, clear that she's trying to get me to flinch.

But I don't fucking flinch.

That makes her even angrier. She steps forward, her accent thick as she speaks in English. "I will kill you, you traitor."

"Traitor?" Despite my instinct to raise a brow, I stay still, not wanting them to know I've gained control of my body yet. "When have I ever proven to be loyal to your unpleasant ass?" And then I trail my eyes to the big-nosed man next to her."How's your puny dick doing, by the way?"

My lips twitch when I sense the girl's eyes blaze at the mention of his dick. Her jealousy satisfies me.

"ona togo ne stoit." Another voice chimes as a series of footfalls follows, dragging my attention to the numerous bodies that trail into the room. (She's not worth it)

Twelve bodies to be exact, all decked in matching black uniforms, weapons tucked into their waistbands.

So particular.

Nine of them men, three of them women. But my gaze zeros in on the twins, one of whom has a bandage wrapped around his head while he glares daggers at me.

I twist my hands behind my back and loosen the shitty excuse of a knot. My Sitto could tie a better knot than this, and her fingers were three times chubbier than those of a normal grandmothers. "Look who's decided to finally wake up from his nap."

There's a universal face every man makes when he's been undermined, when he's taken a hit to his ego and can't accept it. His brows draw down towards his nose, and his eyes glare so hard it's comical.

That face was something I lived to see in every man I encountered.

Once I've grown satisfied with the look of the

Twinkies face, my gaze coasts to the backup I suppose is here to tame little old me.

Nine men and three women.

All my father hired were lousy men, seeing as they believed women were meant to be protected from violence instead of the ones causing it. Something about this scene, however, is refreshing.

I liked the diversity.

The Twinkie of a man looks like he's going to strangle me, so does his twin, but the moment he makes a move to step forward, a loud creak echoes from behind them all, and everything stills.

Although the atmosphere before the creak wasn't loud, everyone seemed to fall completely silent and still, so still that the thick blanket of silence washing over the room rings in my ears as I watch every single person in the room lower their heads.

Not a whisper, a twitch, nor a breath out of place, and I'm smart enough to sense a shift in the murky air that sharpens to ice.

Sensing the lack of room for ignorance, I straighten my spine and know that whatever's got these people so strung up is coming from the entrance, behind them all.

The Russians in this room are naturally taller, yet I still make out the top of a dark head of hair and eyes that brush right over everyone's head.

That's when I realize that it's not a matter of whatever but whomever.

And this whoever's got eyes a rich deep blue, with a depth I'd imagine the undiscovered parts of the ocean to have. Dark, with millions of unknowns swimming in its depths.

It isn't long before the crowd is parting like the Red Sea. I can't tell if it's respect or fear controlling their mechanical movements, but the path they clear allows the governing superiority to bleed off him and travel right into the pits of my stomach.

That alone tells me this is the man behind it all.

I get a good look at my true captor, the man who's been able to stir something other than dislike in my stomach.

Alarm. Unease.

Despite the irrelevant feeling, I can tell the striking contradiction of a man who has grown accustomed to leaving those who are interested in interacting with him intimidated and beyond unsettled.

Yet it's clear what draws those people in, in the first place.

His appearance.

Conventionally attractive was too much of an understatement. I wasn't religious, nor did I believe in myth, but he was the closest I've ever come to seeing a perfectly curated man, one as godly as described in Greek mythology.

But perhaps that's all this is, a myth, an illusion, one curated in my head out of pure boredom. That's the only viable explanation as to why someone- let alone a man- was able to capture this much of my attention.

I remain unbothered, uninterested as his attention comes to me, but I can't help the ounce of electricity his entire demeanour drags out of me.

Intense. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

He scares me, just a little. And I can't help the way that fear sparks at my excitement.

This is going to be fun.

His slow footsteps sound like alarm bells in my head, calculated as he leisurely makes his way to me. And when he gets close enough to study my face, I take the moment to examine said mythological beauty, but my eyes just go right back to his.

A type so enticing and a shade so endless, one would get lost looking in them, that is, if they were brave enough to make eye contact in the first place.

Something none of the people in the room seemed brave enough to do.

That restores my ego, just a little.

I have to physically wrench my gaze from those eyes, and when I do, they move to trail the slope of his nose, impeccably straight, proportional to his face, but large enough to sit on and do a thorough job at that.

His skin is unblemished, far fairer than mine, but his lips just as pink. His face is void of any obvious emotion. Yet even when his features appear relaxed, his jaw and bone structure are strikingly sharp.

A scar mars his left cheekbone. On anyone else, I'd consider it ugly, but on him, it shatters the air of perfection that makes one question if a man like this is real.

It shatters the myth in my head, telling me this man's aura is as harmless as he is a figment of my imagination.

His touch, far from soft, caresses my chin as he grips it, his body temperature hot enough to burn my skin.

I can't help the way my body reacts, and my mind veers into dirty places. Only when I realize where I am and what this is do I force the little whore inside my head, telling me that under different circumstances, I'd fuck this man, back into her shell.

And I'm glad I do so when I realize those endless pools of blue are examining me like I'm nothing but a doll up for sale, and he's deciding if he likes me enough to keep or not.

He finally speaks, the natural gravel of his tone seeping into my ears and destroying the silence he's created in his wake. "Eta zhenshchina ne ta, kotoruyu ya khochu." (Russian| This woman is not the one I want.)

His words aren't directed at me, and the way he's completely indifferent to my existence, especially when he's the one who's leading all this shit, rubs me the wrong way.

"If you're going to have the balls to kidnap me," My voice is cool as I twist my hands behind my back, undoing the knot. "The least you could do is speak to me directly."

The man proves to be just like every other man I've encountered - shitty and useless - when he stands, towering over me in his perfectly tailored suit and ignores me. "Kto eta zhenshchina?" (Who exactly is this woman?)

His voice isn't booming or angry. It's even and calm as he straightens out, leveling my face with his crotch.