Chapter 39 Chapter 39
Chapter 39
Nina’s POV
The lobby lights buzzed overhead like angry insects, casting harsh yellow pools across the faded carpet. My helmet dangled from my fingers, the scratched visor still fogged from my panicked breathing.
The receptionist stood behind the counter, one manicured hand resting possessively on the diamond waist chain looped around his neck. The stones caught every flicker of light, throwing tiny red and green sparks across his purple shirt like he had won some twisted prize.
I stared at him. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it would crack my ribs. Fear clawed up my throat, but something hotter , a rage burned right behind it.
He met my gaze. His lips curled into a slow, mocking smile.
“Aren’t you that bitch who tried to steal from me?” he said, voice dripping with fake innocence. He leaned forward on the counter, chain swinging gently.
“The trash who came in dripping wet and thought she could bribe me with fake jewelry?”
The word “bitch” landed like a slap. My vision tunneled. All the humiliation from that first night—the stolen chain, the screams of “thief,” the porter shoving me into the rain crashed back in a single burning wave.
I stepped forward. My bare feet left damp prints on the carpet. “You stole my diamonds,” I said, voice low and shaking with fury. “And you dare call me a thief?”
His smile widened. “Prove it. Oh wait—you can’t. Because you’re nobody. Just some homeless tramp who—”
I did not let him finish.
I swung the helmet in my hand like a club. The hard plastic shell arced toward his head. He flinched, eyes widening in surprise, and ducked just enough that it grazed his temple instead of cracking his skull. The impact made a dull thud. A thin line of blood welled up along his hairline.
He snarled and lunged across the counter, fist aimed straight for my nose. I closed my eyes instinctively, bracing for the crunch of bone.
It never came.
A sharp, sickening crack filled the air—bone grinding against bone.
I opened my eyes.
The biker had moved faster than I could track. His gloved hands clamped around the receptionist’s ankle mid-punch. With one brutal twist, he wrenched it sideways.
The foot turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees. The crack echoed again—louder, wetter.
The man screamed, high and animal, collapsing across the counter. His face went white, sweat blooming instantly on his skin.
The biker did not stop.
He dragged the screaming man off the counter by the twisted ankle, letting him drop to the floor in a heap.
Then he planted one heavy boot on the receptionist’s back, pinning him face-down. The man whimpered, tears mixing with the blood trickling from his temple.
The biker looked at me. The helmet hid his face completely, but I felt the amusement again dark, controlled, almost lazy. He jerked his head toward the kneeling, crying figure.
I understood.
My heart pounded so loud it drowned out the receptionist’s sobs. I stepped forward. My hand trembled as I raised it.
The first slap cracked across the man’s cheek—open palm, full force. His head snapped sideways. The second slap followed immediately, harder, leaving a bright red imprint of my fingers on his skin. Blood from his temple smeared across my palm.
I grabbed the chain.
My fingers closed around the diamonds. I yanked. The clasp snapped. Skin tore along the back of his neck—thin red lines welling up instantly. He yelped again, but I did not care.
The chain came free, stones warm from his body heat. I clutched it in my fist, the metal biting into my palm.
If I am going to escape this new monster, I will at least need the diamonds to get some cash.
The thought flashed through me, sharp and satisfying. I felt a twisted rush of pleasure at the slaps—at the way his smug face crumpled. For the first time in days, I had hit back.
The biker watched me for a second longer. Then he slammed his fist down on the back of the receptionist’s head.
The man went limp, unconscious, cheek pressed to the dirty carpet.
Without a word, the biker turned and grabbed my wrist. His grip was firm but not cruel. He pulled me toward the door.
I stumbled after him, chain clutched tight. Outside, the night air slapped my face—cool, damp, smelling of exhaust and distant rain.
The motorbike waited at the curb, engine still warm. He released me only long enough to swing his leg over the seat.
I hesitated. “How do I escape now?” I whispered, more to myself than him.
He did not answer. He simply reached out, wrapped one arm around my waist, and hauled me onto the bike in front of him again.
My back pressed to his chest once more. The diamonds dug into my palm between us.
He kicked the engine to life. The roar swallowed my question.
We sped off into the night.
The city blurred past—streetlights streaking into golden lines, buildings leaning close like silent witnesses. My body shook now, not just from cold or fear, but from adrenaline crash.
Every turn pressed me harder against him. His thighs bracketed mine. His heartbeat thudded steadily against my spine—calm, controlled, nothing like the frantic drum of my own.
I tried to focus on the diamonds in my hand. On the slaps I had landed. On anything except the gun still nudging my hip, or the fact that this man had said nothing—nothing—at all.
The road widened. Airport signs flashed by in Italian and English. My stomach dropped.
We turned onto a private access road. Security barriers lifted without him slowing. Guards in dark uniforms stepped aside the moment they saw the bike. No questions. No checks. Just deference.
He was powerful. Connected. Dangerous.
The private hangar loomed ahead—massive steel doors open, floodlights turning the tarmac white.
And there, on the helipad, sat the black chopper I recognized instantly. The same one that had carried me from the island to Italy.
Isabela stood beside it.
Her arms were crossed tight over her chest. Her red dress—silk, expensive—fluttered slightly in the downdraft from the idling rotors.
Her hair was perfect, makeup flawless, but her eyes were red-rimmed, furious. Rage radiated from her like heat from asphalt in summer.
The biker slowed the motorcycle to a stop a few feet from her. The engine idled low, growling.
I stared at Isabela.
“Oh damn it,” I hissed under my breath.
The night air suddenly felt colder. The diamonds in my hand felt heavier.
Everything I had fought for …the escape, the slaps, the tiny spark of control crashed down around me in the roar of the chopper blades.
This evil bitch had come for me.