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.

I briefly think about what the implications of head-butting him in the dick would bring, but stop when something catches my eye. Something dark, strapped to his belt, beneath the flap of his blazer.

Bingo.

"Doch' toy ital'yanskoy svolochi." Unlike with me, the inept Shrek sounds hesitant and weary with his tone. (the daughter of that Italian scum)

I catch a variant of the word Italian in his spiel and suddenly know where all this is stemming from.

I heave an annoyed sigh.

Since the beginning of time, the Italians and Russians of the criminal world have not gotten along. They never formed alliances, always worked against each other in business, with neither of them playing nice.

I didn't involve myself in this drama, but I knew enough to know that things had settled down over the last decade.

And this right here marked the end of the unproblematic era between the two.

But I didn't give a shit, and wanted no part in any of this. Petty crime empires weren't my cup of tea anymore.

"Ona ne." His voice reeks of indifference as he makes a move to turn around, while my gaze is trained on the gun. "Ubey yeye." (She's not. Kill her.)

I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity.

Which is why I do so, swiftly slipping my hands out of the knot and swiping his gun out of its holster. It takes me a mere twenty seconds to jolt up to my feet and have the gun aimed at him.

He's taller than I'd anticipated, which is exactly why the barrel of his own gun is pointed at his chest and not his head.

Clicks sound off around the room, and I glance over to all the men and women now pointing their own guns towards me. Yet the man in the centre of all the attention barely blinks at my sudden display.

No surprise, no alarm, nothing.

It irks me.

"I'm a little offended that your men would think a shitty knot would do in tying up an Ademaro." I offer smugly.

The man turns to me, finally settling his gaze on me, as though he's finally deeming me worthy of an ounce of his attention. But even then, it's voids of any interest.

The lack of reaction to my antics makes me antsy. Never had I been undermined by something as simple as a reaction, or lack thereof.

My fingers tighten around the gun in my hand as I consider how things could escalate. Guns weren't my weapon of choice, nor did I necessarily like using them for personal reasons, but for him, I'd make an exception.

"Who tied the ropes?" The first words of English out of his mouth are smooth, punctuated with ease, and his accent isn't thick; it's merely hinted in a way some might find intriguing.

But I'm focused on the way the phrase comes as a simple demand. One that sounds far too casual and dismissive for my liking.

But that's not what sends my mind into a spiral. It's the way his eyes examine me with indifference, yet he chooses to speak in English, not because he's speaking to me, but because he wants me to hear.

An arrogant man. I hated those.

The man who'd spiked my drink, also known as the inept Shrek, steps forward, his head hung, eyes cast downward. "ya sdelal." (I did)

A beat of silence passes, while the man before me shows no reaction. It's as though he could not function like a normal fucking human.

The question must have been a distraction because in a matter of milliseconds, he snapped my wrist, twisted the gun from my hand into his, and fired one lone bullet, straight into the man's forehead.

His head quite literally explodes. It's a gruesome sight that sends blood splattering onto the people standing around him.

No one bats an eye or even flinches. Not even as the blood of a fellow companion trickles down the sides of their faces, clothes, and onto the dirty floor by their feet.

Nothing. They stand rigid, enslaved to their positions out of pure fear.

It's something I've never seen before, which tells me I'm in over my head. And this realization sparks the one where the gravity of the situation settles on my shoulders, like a dead weight.

Shit.

Whoever these people were, they operated differently. Loyalty and family didn't uphold any value in keeping your life, as they did with the Italians.

This man was a cold-blooded tyrant.

A type so evil he wouldn't bat an eye whilst shooting a man who'd probably stuck by his side and remained loyal to him.

At least the Italians slapped some sappy shit about family to keep everyone in check. This man didn't need to appease the masses to keep people in check.

Interesting.

Perhaps he'd done that to scare me, drill through his superiority over me, or get a reaction out of me. I don't give him any of those things as I give an unimpressed sigh. "Well, that was a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

He flips the gun back onto me with too much ease for me to catch his bluff. "Sit down."

The day Celina Ademaro listened to the demands of a man without fighting back was the day hell would freeze over.

I stand tall. "And if I don't?"

From what little I heard, the bratva was a close-knit family operating mainly in Russia.

This man, however, didn't operate under a crime family, where power was distributed, albeit unevenly. This was simply him and his army.

He held all the power.

"Your blood will stain my thousand-dollar suit." My response was in an attempt to anger him, annoy him. But once again, I get no reaction but cold indifference as he finishes his sentence. "And inconvenience my day more than it already has."

I may not have been able to call his bluff, but I sure as fuck was smart enough to know no made man would go through all this trouble just to kill their collateral. "You'll need to try a bit harder." A smug smile graces my lips as I find the upper hand. "I highly doubt-"

My left ear rings, my eardrum threatens to burst, and a burning sensation prickles the entire left side of my face. I'd been shot at enough times to know that he'd not only grazed the shell of my ear with a bullet, but he'd sliced off an inch from a few strains of my hair along with it.

The glare I send him is doused in hatred as my hands shake at my sides and my body threatens to explode. It's in that moment, as I'm staring at his stoic face - void of any emotion, that I vow to kill this man before I die.

He raises his dark brow a fraction of an inch, a move so subtle I wouldn't catch it had I not been so perceptive. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

Despite the ringing in my ear, his voice pushes past it, loud and clear.

"When my father gets word of this, you'll be a dead man." It takes everything in me to bite my tongue and do what he says. "And I'll make sure I get the honor of slitting your throat."

He's unfazed by my threats.

I wanted his head, and I'd do it with my bare hands.

"Tell me your name." He doesn't even have the decency to form it as a question.

"Celina Ademaro." My teeth slam together as I grit out my response.

The man puts his gun away, a clear sign that he doesn't see me as worthy of being a threat, and instead pulls out his phone, before directing all his attention to it.

I sit there seething and plotting every single detail of his gruesome death while he clicks away at his phone.

He doesn't have a gun to my head, and my hands aren't tied, but he's proven that he doesn't need to. He could and would win.

Which is why I'm smart enough to shut up and comply, for now.

"Celina Ademaro doesn't exist." It's only when he slips his phone back into his pocket that he looks back at me.

My hands tighten around the metal of the chair in an attempt to keep my temper at bay. "My father didn't want me tied to his name." I grit, forcing out an explanation. "I took my mother's legal last name."

Despite the situation, it was the truth. Ademaro put a target on my back. This way, I was able to go to school and live a life away from the spotlight.

His tone is dismissive and cold once again. "Prove it."

No room for argument, nor is there any room for understanding.

"My father's ring." I make a show of holding my hand up in front of him. "If you focus your beady little eyes on this," I turn my hand and display the small engraving. "You'd see my last name engraved on it."

The man glances at it, no doubt spotting the Ademaro carved into the gold band. It was the same ring that the other two men who founded the Galanti mafia wore, only they had their last names engraved on their rings.

The man eyes me for a moment, almost in contemplation, before taking a step forward.

I sit, paralyzed as his large hands reach for the collar of my shirt and in one fast motion, he tears it down the middle, leaving me in nothing but my black bra.

Not only does he violate me so easily, but he doesn't look the least bit interested as a chunk of my shirt dangles from his hand.

I try to glare at him, but he moves behind me and so I use my words, "I'll kill you for that-" a hand curls itself around a chunk of my long hair and he pulls my head back before shoving the piece of cloth into my mouth.

And it's only after he's snapped a photo of me, restrained, gagged, and in nothing but my bra, does he slip his phone back into his pocket and look down at me, his stare so naturally unnerving I almost fear for my life.

"You'd die trying."