“Follow me.” He walks briskly toward the entrance. Alessia quietly sets her bag on the ground, turns, and runs.
* * *
I stare at the ceiling, my mind churning through all the plans I’ve put in place since Alessia was taken. Tomorrow I’ll fly to Albania, and Tom Alexander will accompany me. Annoyingly, it’s too-short notice for a private jet, so we’re flying commercial. Thanks to Magda, we have the address of Alessia’s parents. It’s also thanks to Magda that Alessia’s fiancé found her. I don’t dwell on this tidbit of information, because it makes me incandescent with fury.
Calm down, mate.
We’ll pick up a car, drive to Tirana, and overnight there at the Plaza hotel. Tom has arranged for us to meet up with a translator who will come with us to Kukës the following day.
And we’ll stay there for however long it takes. We’ll wait for Alessia and her kidnapper.
Not for the first time this evening, I wish I’d bought her that phone. It’s so frustrating not being able to contact her.
I hope she’s okay.
I close my eyes, imagining horrible scenarios.
My sweet girl.
My sweet, sweet Alessia.
I’m coming to get you. I’ve got you.
I love you.
* * *
Alessia flees blindly into the dark, fueled by her adrenaline rush. She’s running over the asphalt, then onto rough grass. Behind her she hears a shout. It’s him. She hears his footsteps pounding on the frozen ground. Getting closer.
Closer still.
Then silence.
He’s on the grass.
No.
She pushes herself harder, hoping that her feet will carry her away from him. But he grabs her, and she’s falling. Falling. Tackled to the ground so forcefully that she scrapes her face on the frosted grass. Anatoli lies on top of her back, panting heavily. “You stupid bitch. Where the hell do you think you’re going to go at this time?” he hisses in her ear. He kneels up and drags her over until she’s lying on her back, then sits astride her. He slaps her hard across her face, snapping her head to the side. He leans down over her, puts his hand on her throat, and squeezes.
He’s going to kill her.
She doesn’t struggle.
She stares at him. Her eyes on his. In their frigid blue, she sees the darkness of his heart. His hate. His anger. His inadequacy. His hand tightens, and he’s choking the life from her. Her head begins to swim. She reaches up and clutches his arm.
This is how I am going to die….
She sees her end. Here. Somewhere in France at the hands of this violent man. She wants it. She welcomes it. She doesn’t want to live a life in fear, like her mother. “Kill me,” she mouths.
Anatoli growls something incomprehensible—and lets go.
Alessia takes a huge breath and puts her hands up to her throat, coughing and spluttering, her body overruling her, fighting for life, sucking in precious air, and reviving her.
She gasps. “This is why I don’t want to marry you.” Her voice is husky and small, forcing sound through her bruised larynx.
Anatoli grabs her jaw and looms over her, his face close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her cheek . “ ‘A woman is a sack, made to endure,’ ” he snarls, with a cruel glint in his eye.
Alessia gazes at him as hot tears scald the sides of her face and pool in her ears. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying. He is quoting from the ancient Kanun of Lek Dukagjini, the primitive feudal code that governed the mountain tribes in the north and east of her country for centuries. Its legacy lingers. Anatoli sits back.
“I would be better off dead than with you.” Her voice is emotionless.
He frowns, nonplussed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He slowly rises, standing over her. “Get up.”
Alessia coughs once more and staggers painfully to her feet. He clasps her elbow and marches her back to where her abandoned bag sits in the parking lot. He picks it up and grabs his own suitcase several steps farther on.
He makes short work of checking in. Alessia hangs back while he hands over his passport and credit card. Anatoli speaks fluent French. She’s too weary and too sore to be surprised.
Their spartan suite has two main rooms. The living room has dark gray furniture and a small kitchenette to the side. The wall behind the sofa is painted in cheerful mismatched stripes. Through the open door beyond, Alessia spies two double beds. She breathes a sigh of relief. Two beds. Not one. Two.
Anatoli dumps her duffel on the floor, shoves off his coat, and throws it on the sofa. Alessia watches him, listening to the thud of her pulse thrumming in her ears. In the silence of the room, it’s deafening.
What now? What will he do?
“Your face is a mess. Go and clean yourself up.” Anatoli points to the bathroom.
“And whose fault is that?” Alessia snaps.
He glowers at her, and for the first time she notices his red-rimmed eyes and his pale complexion. He looks exhausted. “Just do it.” He even sounds exhausted. She heads into the bedroom, then the bathroom, slamming the door with such force that the loud bang makes her jump.
The bathroom is small and dingy, but in the insipid glow of the light above the mirror Alessia sees her reflection and gasps. One side of her face is red from his slap, and on the other there’s a graze on her cheekbone from where she hit the ground. Around her throat there are vivid red marks in the shape of his fingers. Tomorrow they will be bruises. But what shocks her most is the lifeless eyes staring back at her from beneath swollen lids.
She is dead already.
With swift, automatic movements, she washes her face, wincing as the soapy water touches the scrape. She pats herself dry with a towel.
When she reenters the living room, Anatoli has hung up his jacket and is searching through the minibar.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
She shakes her head.
He pours himself a drink—scotch, she thinks—and downs the entire glass in one gulp, closing his eyes to savor the taste. When he opens them again, he seems calmer. “Take off your coat.”
Alessia doesn’t move.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alessia, I do not want to fight with you. I am tired. It’s warm in here. Tomorrow we will go back out into the cold. Please take your coat off.”
Reluctantly she removes her coat as Anatoli stares at her, making her feel self-conscious. “I like you in jeans,” he says, but Alessia can’t look at him. She feels like a prize sheep on the auction block as he appraises her. She hears the rattle of bottles, but this time Anatoli produces a Perrier out of the fridge. “Here, you must be thirsty.” He pours it into a glass and offers it to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes it and drinks.
“It’s almost midnight. We should sleep.”
Her eyes meet his, and he smirks. “Ah, carissima, I should make you mine after the stunt you pulled outside.” He reaches for her chin, and she flinches as his fingers graze her skin.
Don’t touch me.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking only to himself. “But I don’t have the energy to fight you. And I think it would be a fight. Yes?”
She closes her eyes, battling a wave of revulsion that unsettles her stomach. Anatoli chuckles, and his lips caress her forehead in a soft kiss. “You will grow to love me,” he whispers. He picks up their bags and takes them into the bedroom.
Never.
The man is delusional.
Her heart belongs to another. It will always belong to Maxim.
“Go and change into your nightclothes,” he says.
She shakes her head. “I will sleep like this.” She doesn’t trust him.
Anatoli cocks his head, his expression severe. “No. Take your clothes off. You won’t run i
f you’re naked.”
“No.” She crosses her arms.
“No you won’t run, or no you won’t take your clothes off?”
“Both.”
He exhales, frustrated and tired. “I don’t believe you. But I also don’t understand why you are running.”
“Because you are an angry, violent man, Anatoli. Why would I want to spend my life with you?” Her voice holds no emotion.