Chapter 37 Chapter 37
Chapter 37
Nina’s POV
My back pressed harder against the doorframe as Marco’s hand hovered inches from my arm. The basement air felt thicker now, heavy with the stink of his beer breath and the faint echo of bleach from the supply room down the hall. His eyes were glassy, unfocused from the alcohol, but the intent in them was sharp and ugly.
He leaned in closer, his bulk blocking the dim light from the corridor bulb. I could see the veins bulging in his neck, the sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool underground chill.
I swallowed hard. My throat tightened like a noose. “Marco, stop. I said I don’t need the advance.”
He chuckled low in his chest, a sound that vibrated through the small space like a threat. “You think you can just tease and walk away? Come on, scream queen. We both know you’re not going anywhere.”
His fingers brushed my elbow. Rough. Insistent. I jerked back, but there was nowhere to go. The room behind me was a dead end cot, sink, barred window. No escape.
Panic clawed up my spine. I shoved at his chest with both hands, arms crossed protectively over my breasts.
The uniform shirt gaped open at the collar, and I felt exposed, vulnerable, like every bruise and scar on my body was screaming for help. “Get away from me.”
He grabbed my wrist instead. His grip was iron, twisting just enough to make me gasp. Pain shot up my arm, mingling with the throb in my ankle from the night before.
“Don’t be like that. I gave you a job. A room. Food. You owe me.”
Owe him. The word twisted like a knife. I had heard it before from my father, from Dante, from every man who thought they could own a piece of me. Rage boiled over the fear. I stomped down hard with my good foot, aiming for his instep. He grunted and loosened his hold just enough for me to wrench free.
I bolted for the door.
He was faster than he looked. His arm wrapped around my waist from behind, yanking me back against his chest. Beer breath hot on my neck. “
“Where you going? We’re just getting started.”
I thrashed. Elbows flying. Knees kicking. My heel connected with his shin, but he only laughed—mean, breathless. His free hand pawed at my shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons.
One popped free. Cool air hit my bare skin. Terror flooded me—pure, blinding. I screamed. Not words. Just raw sound ripping from my throat.
His palm clamped over my mouth. “Shut up. No one’s coming.”
I bit down. Hard. Blood filled my mouth on his this time. He howled and shoved me forward. I stumbled into the room, catching myself on the edge of the cot. The mattress sagged under my weight.
I spun around, eyes darting for anything—a weapon, an escape. The sink. The bulb. Nothing.
Marco loomed in the doorway, hand bleeding, face twisted in fury. “You little bitch.”
He lunged.
I dodged left. His fist grazed my shoulder. Pain bloomed fresh. I grabbed the metal bed frame and swung my leg out, tripping him.
He went down hard, knee cracking against the concrete floor. A curse exploded from him.
I scrambled over him toward the door. Freedom—five feet away. Four. Three.
His hand shot out, snagging my ankle. The injured one. Agony exploded white-hot up my leg. I fell forward, chin slamming into the floor. Stars burst behind my eyes. Blood trickled from my lip again—the scab split open.
He crawled up my body like a predator. Weight pinning me down. His knee pressed into my back. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
Tears burned my eyes. I bucked, twisted, clawed at the floor. Nails scraping concrete until they bled. “Get off me!”
The door was so close. Open. Taunting.
Then a shadow filled it.
A figure—short, round, white hair catching the light. The old chef from the cafeteria. His face was thunderous, eyes wide with shock that quickly turned to rage.
In his hand, he held an iron poker—long, black, hooked at the end like something from an old fireplace. He must have grabbed it from the storage room nearby.
“Che cazzo fai?” he bellowed, voice booming through the narrow space like a cannon.
Marco froze on top of me. “Mind your business, old man.”
The chef did not hesitate. He swung the poker high. The air whistled. It connected with Marco’s shoulder first—a sickening thud of metal on flesh. Marco grunted, rolling off me to the side.
I scrambled away, back against the wall, gasping.
Marco pushed up to his knees, cursing. “You crazy—”
The chef swung again. This time the hook caught Marco’s arm. Blood bloomed through his shirt. He roared.
“Get away from her!” the chef shouted. He brought the poker down a third time—straight across Marco’s back. Fabric tore. Skin split.
Blood sprayed in a fine arc, splattering the floor and my legs.
Marco collapsed forward, face-first onto the concrete. He twitched once, groaned, then went still. Blood pooled under him, dark and sticky.
The chef dropped the poker. It clanged against the floor, echoing. He stood there panting, hands shaking.
A thin line of blood trickled from his own forehead—must have caught a splinter or backlash from the swing.
I burst into tears. Sobs wracked my body—deep, ugly, uncontrollable. Relief and terror crashing together like waves. I curled against the wall, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight.
The chef knelt beside me. His hands—rough from years of chopping and stirring—reached out gently. “Ragazza. It’s okay. He’s down.”
I let him pull me into a hug. His apron smelled of garlic and bread, familiar and safe. I buried my face in his shoulder and cried harder. “Thank you,” I whispered between sobs. “Thank you.”
He held me tight, rocking slightly like a grandfather soothing a child. “Shh. No more. You’re safe.”
After what felt like hours—but was probably minutes—he helped me stand. My ankle screamed, but I leaned on him. We stepped over Marco’s unconscious body. Blood smeared the floor in streaks. His chest rose and fell—alive, but out cold.
The chef led me into the hallway. The air felt cooler out here, cleaner. He pulled a phone from his apron pocket. “I call police. This pig needs to go.”
“No!” The word tore from me. I grabbed his arm. “Please. No police.”
He frowned, phone halfway to his ear. “Why? He attacked you.”
I shook my head, tears streaming fresh. Memories flashed: the hotel clerk screaming “thief,” the policemen chasing me through the rain, my knee to one’s groin, my teeth sinking into the other’s cheek. Blood on my lips.
Accusations of stealing. If they came now, they would see me—bruised, bloody, a foreigner with no papers. They would arrest me too. Send me back to my father. Or worse—to Dante.
“I can’t,” I begged. “I’m in trouble. They’ll take me away. Please.”
He searched my face, eyes softening. He lowered the phone. “Okay. No police. But we get you safe.”
We walked down the hall. I limped badly now, leaning heavier on his arm.
Blood trickled from his forehead, a small cut above his brow. I reached up to touch it. “You’re bleeding.”
He caught my hand gently, held it in his. “It’s okay. Just a scratch.”
His voice was steady, but his fingers trembled slightly. The corridor lights buzzed overhead. The museum felt vast and empty around us, shadows stretching long in the dim glow.
Then a sound shattered the quiet.
A screeching roar—like tires on wet pavement, but sharper, mechanical. A powerful motorbike engine revving hard, echoing through the loading dock entrance at the end of the hall.
We both startled. Froze.
The chef’s hand tightened on mine. “What is—”
The roar grew louder. Closer. Rubber burned against concrete. The dock doors rattled.
A figure burst into view at the end of the corridor. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in dark jeans, black leather jacket zipped tight, heavy boots thudding on the floor. He moved fast—purposeful, predatory.
Before I could react, he shoved the chef hard. The old man stumbled back, crashing against the wall with a grunt. His phone skittered across the floor.
“Stop!” I shouted, trying to stop him. And to make matters worse, I couldn’t see his face because of the motorbike helmet he was wearing.