Todos os capítulos de Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book Two : Capítulo 111 - Capítulo 120

Continued: "Or the shed could become a target that ends our lives when they retaliate and blast it to oblivion, Sven," I warned, the weight of our precarious situation settling heavily in my chest once again. Christ, on every avenue we look down, there is bloodshed and upset. There is also the vast possibility that Bianca will be taken and harmed because of her father's previous choices to seek out the help of the Densels. What did he need so badly to give them Bianca in payment anyway? Does Bianca even know? That's not something I want to dredge up, so I refuse to ask the question aloud. Sven sighed, his brow furrowed in thought, the light casting shadows across the determined lines of his face. "Well, what choice do we have, Niko? Every avenue we consider seems to lead us further down a path towards doom. Perhaps we could turn the boat to our advantage; it's more cover than we have right now," he argued as he spanned his arm around us to the open beach where there was no

Continued: "That was...," he stammers, still processing the swift manoeuvre. "Impressive? Maybe," I reply nonchalantly. "By the way, do you think there'll be a stall for first aid supplies around here?" "Over there," he nods. I follow his gaze with a sense of urgency, my heart racing as I spot a large stall that stretches across several tables, each cluttered with an assortment of medical supplies. The need surging within me is primal, a drive that propels me forward with determination. Niko desperately needs medical care, and I am more than capable of procuring what he requires. My fingers graze the edge of the stall, and I feel the familiar crunch of packets of gauze tumble into my waiting grasp. I shove them deep into my pockets, barely registering the rough texture of the fabric against my skin as I push on. My eyes land on a suturing kit. It seems strangely out of place yet oddly fitting for the shadowy dealings of the mafia surrounding me. Just as I reach for a pack

Continued: "Guys," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as Sven meticulously cleans the dried blood from Niko's back, using his old t-shirt and a bottle of water that I hadn't had the chance to swipe myself. The air is thick with tension, and the desperate urgency of the moment hangs heavily around us. "In the market, at the stall. I saw Benji Densel there," I confess, the reality of the encounter clawing at my mind. "What?" Niko suddenly jolts closer, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief. His hand gently cradles my cheek as if trying to draw out the truth from me. "What did he want?" Sven's voice is low but laced with a sinister curiosity, a faint hint that he suspected as much but hadn't chosen to ask before. "Nothing," I reply with a shrug, though a frown creases my brow. The memory of Benji's inscrutable expression and actions is unsettling. "He just pushed me towards you and vanished as quickly as he appeared, like a ghost slipping through the shadows." An

Continued: "We should toss it into the ocean, cut off the proverbial loose cannon," Sven states, turning toward me with an intense gaze. "No communication is safer than obsessively waiting for their next move." "May I?" I ask, extending my hand for the phone. Bianca passes it to me with a quick, anxious motion as if relinquishing a dangerous artefact. I take a moment to inspect it, my curiosity piqued. The back cover lifts away easily, revealing an ancient battery, a relic from another era. Beneath it lies an old-style SIM card, its purpose nearly obsolete. The device powers on instantly, fully charged, and I delve into its contents, scrolling quickly through contacts, recent, and messages—only to find an unnerving emptiness. It's entirely devoid of any information to digest. "It's not an immediate threat," I clarify, glancing at the phone on the table between us, its screen dark and silent. "There's nothing on it to indicate it's been used before. It's likely that Densel—at lea

Continued: As I scroll upwards through the messages, the rush of the downloaded images fills the screen: one of Luca striding purposefully through a vast hanger alongside the imposing figure of Mass; he looks tired and frayed, and another captures Emma, serene and unaware, nestled in her bed with her pillow between her legs as she always sleeps, and a third – a jarring sight – shows Niko, the fabric of his t-shirt drenched in crimson, stark against the sandy backdrop of the beach just earlier on and lastly, a picture of Sven, bruised and bloody, hanging on a familiar chair from the dining table of this very yacht in the darkness. Each of these snapshots feels painfully recent, yet Emma's photograph unsettles me the most. It appears pixilated, as though captured from a distance, and an unsettling thought creeps into my mind: could there be a breach in Luca's defence whilst she's left to defend herself and her baby? Is it possible that Emma, seemingly safe in her slumber inside a se