Armando

My eyes slowly adjusted to the harsh light flooding the room, and panic gripped me as I scanned my surroundings—nothing looked familiar. Then I saw her. The woman sitting across from me, her fingers nervously twirling around a white coffee mug, felt like an enigma wrapped in mystery. Her tousled blond hair framed a face that was both beautiful and haunting, but it was her eyes—those mesmerizing blue pools—that drew me in. They widened with surprise, a flicker of something deeper swirling within as she noticed I was conscious.

But it was the dried blood caked beneath her fingernails that sent a chill down my spine.

What the hell happened?

“Where am I?” I croaked out, my voice rough and foreign, struggling against the fog clouding my memory. Each word felt like it tore through the haze, but the images remained elusive, dancing just out of reach.

She set her cup down with a deliberate calmness and leaned toward me, her body taut and coiled like a spring ready to snap. The golden tan of her bare arms glowed against the sterile environment, and I couldn't help but notice the strength beneath the surface.

“You were shot,” she said, a strange mix of triumph and something darker threading her tone. “I saved you from whoever wanted you dead.” A snicker escaped her lips, laced with pride—for what? For saving me or for the chaos that lingered in her wake?

Suddenly, flashes of the earlier scene crashed into my mind like waves against jagged rocks: Rico and the Death Dealers had me cornered, betrayal slicing deep. Pain surged through me at the recollection, but I swallowed it down; she didn’t need to know my past, the venom that ran through my veins.

I could only focus on one thing: escape. But how in the hell could I get away when every exit seemed sealed tight, with nowhere to run?

“I didn’t ask for your help!” I bit out, my voice ragged and strained as I attempted to lift myself. But the moment I moved, agony shot through me like a wild animal clawing its way out.

“Wow, how rude after I saved your life,” she tossed back, sarcasm dripping from her words. She rolled her eyes before standing up, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence of her living room. I pressed my hands against my stomach, desperately wishing the pain would subside, but deep down I knew it wouldn’t—this was far from over.

My gaze flitted around the room, taking in the framed pictures hanging on the walls. Smiling faces stared back at me—her with what I could only assume were friends and family, moments frozen in time. Then my eyes landed on her nursing degree, the words “Bachelor of Science in Nursing” glaring back like a cruel reminder of my reality.

Shit. It wasn’t a nightmare; she really had claimed to be a nurse.

A surge of panic gripped me. I had stumbled into her sanctuary, but it wasn’t safe here. If the Death Dealers found me, they wouldn’t think twice before spilling blood—hers and mine. The thought tightened around my heart like a vice, the ugly truth of my circumstances crashing down like a wave. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

I was trapped, and the weight of that realization settled heavily on my chest.

Suddenly, the woman re-entered the room, her presence as unsettling as the storm brewing inside me. One hand clutched a bundle of sterile white gauze; in the other, she held a bucket brimming with soapy water.

“You think you want to escape this place,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “But believe me, you have no choice. You’re stuck here until you heal—or until you’re desperate enough to reach out to your friends.” With a swift motion, she slammed the bucket down, and suds splattered across my bare leg, the coldness jolting me back to reality.

“The same friends who shot you and tossed your motorcycle in the river,” she continued, her words dripping with contempt. She picked up the towel from the bucket, wringing it out with a ferocity that mirrored the turmoil churning within me. “You choose.”

As her fingers brushed over my abdomen, tugging at the dark blood that seeped into the gauze, an icy grip seized my heart. **My bike.** The memory sliced through me—my father’s gift on my eighteenth birthday, a symbol of freedom I had fought so hard to restore. Gritting my teeth, I remained silent, her soft touch both soothing and maddening as she worked the rag around my torso.

“My bike,” I finally muttered, the weight of loss heavy in my throat.

She paused, releasing a breath filled with understanding, those piercing blue eyes meeting mine with a tenderness that felt almost surreal. “I watched from the trees when they shot you. I’m a nurse—I couldn’t just leave you there, even after you begged me not to call the police.” Her voice softened, but the tension in the air remained palpable as she dipped the rag into the soapy water once more, each motion deliberate, as if tending to my wounds meant tending to something far deeper.

“Thank you.” The words tasted foreign on my tongue, a rare acknowledgment I seldom offered, especially to a woman.

“Well, I don’t accept it. So keep it until you truly mean it.” Her voice was firm as she finished washing my wounds, wrapping fresh gauze around them with expert care. Then she stood, retreating to the kitchen, where the sound of water draining into the sink echoed in the silence.

I turned my gaze to the table beside me, my heart racing as I spotted my phone, keys, and wallet haphazardly placed there. But it was the small envelope, labeled with her name—Maya Connor—that drew my attention, chilling me to the bone.

With trembling hands, I gripped my phone, pulling it closer, desperate for answers. As I clicked the screen on, the low battery warning flashed like an alarm bell in my mind. A flood of missed calls and frantic texts assaulted me, each one a painful reminder of my absence. Jake—my second-in-command—had sent multiple messages, his concern palpable: “Where are you?” “What happened?”

Panic surged through me as the realization hit: I had been missing for three agonizing days. Holy fuck.

A rush of dread washed over me. My crew must be searching for me. They had to be. The thought of their worry, their fear, made my chest tighten. What if they believed I was gone for good? I felt a desperate urgency clawing at my insides, pushing me to act before it was too late before they found me.