Chapter 4~ Kidnapped

Chapter 4

Estelle

✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦

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 Love Island.

Unfortunately, I had already broken both rules.

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.

“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.

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 star in the Sicilian remake of Taken.

“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.

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.

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 Jason Bourne 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?”

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.

The boy—small, warm, and far braver than I—sniffled into my collar. I stroked his hair awkwardly.

“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 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.

And then, because fate has the worst sense of humor, I crashed headlong into someone solid.

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.

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!”

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.

“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!”

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

“Disguises? What do you think I am, James Bond 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.

“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.”

“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.

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 the Sicilian Terminator.”

His grey eyes locked on mine, and for the briefest moment, something flickered there. Confusion? Amusement? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell.

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.