Chapter 1: The Night Shift

"If you ever get taken, don't scream. Keep calm and count."

That was the last thing my father ever taught me before he disappeared. I was ten. I thought he was being dramatic.

I stopped thinking that the night they came for us.

It was a Friday, I remember clearly because the restaurant was packed, as usual for that night. It ended up being just Marge, my coworker, and me handling all the customers.

That was the last normal moment I had.

I stared at the clock on the wall, It was 11:55 PM. My shift was almost over.

“Isabella, are you still with us?" I blinked and looked at Marge.

She was wiping down the counter for the umpteenth time tonight. Her grey hair was falling out of her hairnet, and she looked just as tired as I was.

"I'm here, Marge. Just thinking about my bed, I really need to get some rest,” I said. My voice sounded raspy. I’d been taking orders for eight hours straight.

"You’ve been looking at that door all night," Marge said. She stopped scrubbing and leaned on her elbows. "Expecting someone? A boyfriend?"

I let out a small laugh. “A boyfriend?” Marge just nodded innocently.

“You’re old enough to have a boyfriend, aren’t you?” She smiled.

I shook my head and started stacking the clean mugs. "I am, but it’s not a boyfriend... I don’t know, it’s just a feeling; I may be overthinking it.” I shrugged.

"The air feels different, you know, like it’s too thick," I continued, but she just looked at me with concern.

“Everything okay at home?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just forget I said anything.” I let out a wry smile and continued stacking the clean cups.

I couldn't explain it to her. I couldn't tell her that for the past three days, a black car had been parked at the end of my street. I couldn't tell her that when I walked to work, I felt someone watching my every move. My mother always told me we were safe now. She told me the past was dead and buried. But the past has a way of showing up in unexpected ways and for an odd reason I've been waiting for the 'past' to finally catch up to us.

"Go home, honey," Marge said, waving a hand at me. "The night owls can wait. I'll lock up. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, now go before I change my mind and make you mop the walk-in freezer." She joked.

I didn't need to be told twice. I grabbed my thin jacket and my purse. "Thanks, Marge. See you tomorrow."

"Be careful, Bella. The city is unusually quiet tonight; secure your purse." She said as I thanked her once again. This city was known for its pickpockets, and I’d hate to experience that tonight of all nights.

I stepped out of the diner, and the cold air hit me harshly. Marge was right. The city felt different. Usually, there were noises from traffic and sirens and people chattering as if it wasn’t almost midnight, but tonight, it felt like everyone had gone to sleep.

I started walking. My apartment was only six blocks away. I kept my head down, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. My keys were clutched in my right hand, the sharp metal edges pressing into my palm. My dad taught me that.

‘Never walk with your hands empty, Bella. Always be ready to swing.’ He’d say.

I reached the corner of my street when I heard a car door closing.

It wasn't loud. It was a soft, heavy thud. I didn't look back. I just walked faster. My boots clicked against the pavement, echoing in the empty street.

Behind me, I heard another set of footsteps. They were heavier than mine. They weren't trying to be quiet.

I didn't stop. I ran.

I turned the corner into my alleyway. It was a shortcut to my building’s back entrance. I knew every trash can and every loose brick in this alley. I reached the heavy iron door and fumbled with my keys. My hands were shaking so hard I dropped it.

"shit," I hissed, kneeling in the dark.

"Need some help with that?"

I froze.

A man was standing at the entrance of the alley. He was tall, wearing a long dark coat. I couldn't see his face, but I could see the glow of a cigarette in his hand.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice trembling. I found the keys and jammed the right one into the lock. "Go away."

He let out a small laugh.

"You're just like your father," the man said. He started walking toward me. "Always running. Always hiding. It gets tiring after a while, doesn't it?"

How the fuck does he know my father?

I got the door open and slammed it shut behind me, locking the deadbolt. I ran up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I burst through my front door and locked all three locks. I leaned my back against the wood, gasping for air.

"Mom?" I called out.

The apartment was dark. It was small, just a kitchen, a tiny living room, and two bedrooms, but it was home. Or it was supposed to be.

"Mom, are you awake?"

I walked into the kitchen. The light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the window. There was a glass of water on the table. It was still full. My mom never left a full glass of water. She was obsessive about cleaning up before bed.

"Mom?"

I went to her bedroom and pushed the door open. The bed was made. The pillows were straight. But she wasn't there.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

I ran back to the living room and grabbed the house phone. I dialed her cell number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then it went to voicemail.

"Isabella?"

The voice didn't come from the phone. It came from the corner of the living room.

I spun around. A man was sitting in my mother's favorite armchair. He was leaning back, his legs crossed comfortably. He looked like he belonged there. He looked like he owned the building.

"Who are you?" I was scared now.

I moved toward the kitchen counter, reaching for the knife block.

“How did you get into my apartment?”

"Don't do that," he said. He didn't move, but his voice had a sharp edge to it. "You'll only hurt yourself."

"Where is my mother? What did you do with her?"

"She’s safe, for now," he said. He stood up slowly. He was younger than the man in the alley. Maybe in his late twenties. He was handsome, but I didn’t care enough; I just wanted to know who the fuck he was and what he was doing in my home.

"I’m calling the police," I said, grabbing a steak knife from the counter.

The man actually laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. "The police? In this neighborhood? Come on, Isabella, you know better than that. They don't come here unless there's a body to collect. And even then, they take their time."

"Get out of my house."

“Your house?” He laughed. "It's not your house anymore, Isabella Romano. Nothing belongs to you anymore."

My heart stopped for a split second.

“H... h... how do you know that name?" I stammered.

We hadn't used the name Romano in over ten years. My ID said Isabella Reed. My mail said Isabella Reed.

"The Moretti family has a long memory," he said. He started walking toward me. I held the knife out, my arm shaking.

Moretti?

"Stay back! I mean it!"

He didn't stop. He walked right up to the point of the knife until it was touching his chest. He looked down at the blade, then back at me.

“You have guts, I like it,” he muttered.

“Step back. I won’t hesitate to hurt you,” I said.

"You have your father’s eyes," he said. "But do you have his secrets?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! My father is dead!"

"Is he? That’s a shame. Because he owes us something. Something very valuable."

"Go to his grave then. I don't have anything! We have no money! Look around!" I gestured to the peeling wallpaper and the mismatched furniture. "Do we look like we have anything valuable?"

"Value isn't always about money, Isabella."

Suddenly, the front door burst open.

I didn't even have time to scream. Two men in tactical gear burst in. One grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back. The knife clattered to the floor. The other man went straight for the windows, closing the blinds.

"Let me go! Get your filthy hands off me! Help! Somebody help!" I kicked and twisted, but the man holding me was unshakeable.

"Quiet," the man in the suit said. He reached out and pinched my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You’re making this much harder than it needs to be."

"Where are you taking me?" I sobbed. "Please, at least tell me where my mom is."

"You'll see her soon," he said, but I could tell he was lying by the way he didn't look at me when he said it. "But first, you have an appointment."

"With who?"

He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear.

"With the King."

They pulled a black bag over my head. The world went dark. I felt a needle prick my neck, and before I could even draw another breath, my legs went numb. The last thing I heard was the mumbling and shuffling of feet.

And then, nothing at all.