Chapter 4~ Kidnapped

Chapter 4

ESTELLE

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Rule number one of not dying in Sicily: don't follow three shady men in sunglasses into a public toilet.

Rule number two: if you do break rule number one, and they turn out to be kidnappers with a taped-up toddler, don't sass them like you're auditioning for some trashy reality show, no matter how badly your nerves demand it.

Unfortunately, I had already broken both rules, spectacularly and with what I could only assume was a total lack of self-preservation instinct.

And that was how I ended up in a speedboat with a gaggle of very unfriendly mafia cosplayers and one small child who definitely was not named Sofia, and definitely was not anyone's daughter, no matter how many times they insisted otherwise.

"Hold him tighter," the one in charge barked at me, shoving the boy into my arms like he was a loaf of bread and I was the bakery girl.

I clutched the child, who had enormous brown eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, against my chest. He whimpered softly, and I whispered, "It's okay, love. Auntie Estelle's got you. Auntie Estelle has absolutely no idea what she's doing, but she's got you."

The men weren't paying much attention to me now, arguing in rapid-fire Italian about "uscita" and "soldati."

My GCSE Italian didn't stretch far beyond gelato and ciao bella, but I knew enough to realize they were talking about exits. Which meant they were trapped.

Which meant, God help us, they were panicking. And panicking men with guns in a small boat surrounded by armed strangers seemed like exactly the sort of situation that ended badly for everyone involved, myself very much included.

I, meanwhile, was wearing nothing but a bikini, a sarong, and about three layers of factor 50 sunscreen that had long since sweated off. My sandals were in my hotel room, my phone was back with Millie and Vivian, and my grand plan for the evening had been to drink vanilla milkshake and maybe flirt badly with Pietro, not become the star of some real-life kidnapping thriller playing out on a beach I'd chosen purely because the photos online looked pretty.

"Stay quiet," one of the men hissed at me, brandishing his gun. Like I needed the reminder. I'd been very aware of the whole gun situation ever since Mr. Sunglasses had pressed one against my ribs in the ladies' loo, a memory that was currently on a permanent, unwelcome loop in my head.

But then, then the universe handed me my chance.

The boat jolted as it tried to reverse out of the harbor, and one of the men slipped, swore, and dropped his weapon.

And I thought, Right. This is it. This is your main character moment, Estelle. Time to shine. Time to save the day.

So I did the only logical thing.

I screamed.

It was a scream that could curdle milk, and trust me, men like these ones do not like it. Then I swung the first thing within reach, a tiny iron tool whose name I've never thought to learn straight at the man's head.

"Run!" I shouted at myself, which didn't make sense because where exactly was I running to in the middle of the sea? But adrenaline doesn't check logic.

In that slight moment of shock, I grabbed the baby tighter, leapt over a cooler, and scrambled onto the dock like I was competing in some horrific Olympic event called Kidnap Escape: Bikini Edition, an event I had never trained for and had absolutely no business qualifying for, and yet here I was, apparently a natural.

Gunshots cracked behind me. Screams erupted across the beach. People scattered like pigeons, but I kept running, the child clinging to me like a terrified little koala.

"Don't worry," I panted, dodging past overturned loungers and a man in a speedo who was far too calm about the gunfire. "I've read loads of thrillers. I know how this goes. We just have to find the police or some secret agent or literally anyone with a badge and not get murdered."

Problem was, it looked like the anyone with a badge category was already on the scene, only they weren't wearing badges. They were wearing suits. Black suits. With more guns.

And everyone seemed to be looking for this baby.

"Oh, brilliant," I muttered. "I told Millie I didn't want to come to Italy. Now I was starring in a live-action mafia game of Pass the Parcel. And guess who's the bloody parcel?" My own life choices were starting to feel like an elaborate cosmic joke, one where I was clearly the punchline.

I ducked behind a row of parasols, heart hammering. My bikini strap was digging into my shoulder, my legs felt like jelly, and I was fairly certain half the island had seen me sprint past with a stolen child.

Which, in retrospect, didn't look great for me. Sprinting away from armed men clutching a strange child was not, I imagined, the sort of thing that painted a very convincing picture of innocence.

The boy, small, warm, and far braver than I, sniffled into my collar. I stroked his hair awkwardly, having absolutely no experience comforting terrified toddlers but doing my level best to fake it anyway.

"You're safe with me, love. Totally safe. Unless we get shot. But we won't, because I am very, very good at staying alive. Mostly." I had absolutely no evidence to back that claim up, but he was three and terrified and needed to hear it more than I needed it to be true.

I peeked out. The kidnappers were trying to push through a cordon of men in suits, but they weren't making progress. Which meant I couldn't go back. My only option was forward, through the dunes, into God knew what.

So I ran. Again.

My lungs burned, my bare feet screamed, and my bikini bottoms were making a valiant attempt at becoming dental floss. But I didn't stop, not even when the boy whimpered louder, not even when I thought my heart might actually explode, not even when every rational part of my brain was screaming that I had no idea where I was running to or what I planned to do once I got there.

And then, because fate has the worst sense of humor, I crashed headlong into someone solid, the impact knocking whatever remaining breath I had straight out of my lungs.

Someone tall, broad, and holding a very large gun.

I yelped, stumbled back, and nearly dropped the child.

The man steadied me with one strong arm, but his other hand remained on his weapon, raised and ready. His eyes, sharp, grey, furious, snapped to the baby in my arms, then back to me.

And just like that, every cell in my body screamed: kidnapper.

"Don't you dare touch him!" I shrieked, clutching the boy tighter.

The man's jaw tightened. "Put the child down." His English was flawless, but the accent, deep, clipped, dangerous, was definitely Italian. But he sounded… colder. Like steel. Like a man who was used to being obeyed the instant he opened his mouth, and had no idea what to do with someone who wasn't immediately falling in line.

I took a step back. "You're not getting him. I don't care who you are."

"I said," he growled, leveling the gun directly at me, "put. The child. Down."

"Are you mental?!" I hissed. "You don't point a gun at a toddler! What kind of psychopath are you?"

His eyes narrowed. "The kind who knows a kidnapper when he sees one."

"Excuse me? I'm not the kidnapper, you're the kidnapper!" The absurdity of the accusation, hurled by a man clutching a very large weapon, would have been almost funny under literally any other circumstances.

Around us, men in suits were spreading out, circling like wolves. My heart thundered so loud I could barely hear myself. But apparently, that didn't stop me from arguing with a man who literally had me at gunpoint, because self-preservation had clearly abandoned me somewhere back on that speedboat.

"You think I kidnapped him?" I scoffed, voice climbing octaves. "Do I look like a mafia goon to you? I'm wearing a bloody Primark bikini, for God's sake!" As if that alone weren't damning enough evidence of my complete lack of criminal sophistication.

His lips twitched, but not in amusement. "Disguises come in many forms."

"Disguises? What do you think I am, some secret agent in flip-flops?"

"Put the boy down," he repeated, stepping closer.

"No! He's scared enough without some mafia Rambo waving a gun in his face."

The baby whimpered, clutching at my neck, and my protective instincts went into overdrive. I glared at him with all the fury of a sleep-deprived big sister who'd just found her brother had eaten the last packet of crisps, an expression I had perfected over years of practice on Danny.

"Listen here, Mister Tall-Dark-and-Terrifying. I don't know who you are, but you are not taking this child. I found him. He's mine now. Like a lost puppy. Except he's a human being. With feelings."

The man's nostrils flared, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. His grip on the gun didn't waver. "You have three seconds before I make you drop him." He said it with the flat certainty of a man who'd counted down exactly this kind of threat before, many times, and had never once had to follow through past the third second.

"Oh, brilliant," I snapped. "Go on then, shoot me. Add 'murdered English tourist' to your résumé. Bet your mum would be so proud."

He muttered something sharp in Italian, or maybe it was another language entirely; I couldn't tell, but it sounded very much like a swear, the kind reserved for moments of genuine, profound exasperation.

Then he did the scariest thing of all.

He smiled.

Not a nice smile. Not a Pietro-on-the-beach smile. No, this was the smile of a man who knew he had all the power, and I had none.

Except, apparently, my mouth.

"Fine," I huffed, adjusting the baby on my hip like he was just another errand bag. "If you're so desperate to shoot me, at least let me cover the kid's eyes first. I'm not having his last memory be me getting my brains blown out by some Sicilian action hero."

His grey eyes locked on mine, and for the briefest moment, something flickered there. Confusion? Amusement? Annoyance? I couldn't tell, but whatever it was, it was gone again almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that same unreadable, dangerous calm.

But one thing was very clear: whoever this man was, he thought I was the villain.

And I thought the exact same thing about him.

Which meant one of us was very, very wrong.

Unfortunately, neither of us was about to admit it.