Chapter 38 Chapter 38
Chapter 38
Nina’s POV
The iron poker whistled through the air again, striking Marco’s shoulder with a wet crack. Blood sprayed in a fine red mist, splattering the concrete floor and the hem of my oversized uniform pants. Marco howled, curling inward, but the chef raised the weapon once more, face twisted in protective fury.
The old man’s arm trembled with the effort, veins bulging along his forearm, white hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and the thin trickle of his own blood.
“Stop!” I screamed, voice raw and breaking. “Please stop!”
The chef hesitated for half a second long enough for Marco to groan and try to crawl away. But the biker was already moving. He shoved past me in a blur of black leather and motor oil scent, boots thudding heavy on the floor.
His gloved hand shot out, seizing the chef’s wrist mid-swing. The poker clattered to the ground with a metallic clang that echoed down the corridor like a gunshot.
The chef staggered back, gasping. “Let go!”
The biker did not speak. He simply twisted. The old man cried out as his arm wrenched behind him. The biker’s other hand slammed into the chef’s chest hardly, deliberate while sending him crashing against the wall. Plaster dust puffed out around the impact. The chef slid down slowly, clutching his ribs, eyes wide with shock and pain.
“No!” I lunged forward, throwing myself between them. My body shielded the old man’s crumpled form, arms spread wide like wings. “Don’t touch him! He was helping me!”
The biker froze.
For the first time since he appeared, he stilled completely. The helmet was matte black, visor down and tilted slightly, regarding me.
I could not see his eyes, but I felt the weight of his gaze like physical pressure. Amusement radiated from him in waves were silent, dark, almost playful. He released the chef’s wrist without another move.
The old man coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Ragazza… run…”
I turned to him, tears streaming hot down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen !”
A gloved hand closed around my upper arm. Iron grip. No mercy.
I whipped back around. “Let go of me!”
The biker did not answer. He simply yanked. My feet left the ground for a heartbeat as he dragged me forward. I dug my heels in bare soles scraping concrete but he was impossibly strong. One arm wrapped around my waist, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My legs kicked uselessly. My fists pounded his leather-clad back.
“Put me down!”
He carried me through the corridor, past the loading dock doors that still stood ajar, letting in the cool night air laced with exhaust and distant city noise. Outside, the motorbike waited sleek black beast, chrome catching moonlight, engine still ticking hot from the ride. He dropped me onto the seat in front of him, my back slamming against his chest. My hands instinctively grabbed the tank to steady myself.
I twisted, trying to slide off. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”
His arm banded around my middle again—unyielding, possessive. He pulled me flush against him. Hard chest plates of muscle pressed into my spine.
Lower, unmistakable heat nudged against my lower back through the leather and denim. His body was a furnace, radiating power and something darker.
I froze. Anger burned hotter than fear or embarrassment. My body reacted traitorous flush creeping up my neck but my mind screamed louder. I was too furious to let it matter.
He reached past me, grabbed a spare helmet from the side saddlebag smaller, scratched and jammed it over my head without ceremony. The visor snapped down. The world narrowed to tinted plastic and the smell of old leather.
The engine roared to life beneath us. Vibration rattled through my bones. He kicked off the stand.
“Where are you taking me?” I shouted over the growl.
No answer.
He twisted the throttle. The bike surged forward. My stomach dropped as we shot out of the alley and into the night streets. Wind whipped past, tearing at the edges of my uniform.
I clung to the tank with white-knuckled fingers. My first time on a motorcycle. The speed was terrifying buildings blurred into streaks of color, streetlights flashing overhead like comets. My heart hammered so violently I thought it would burst through my ribs.
The gun.
I felt it then cold metal pressing against my right hip through his jacket. A pistol, holstered at his side. Close enough that every bump in the road made the barrel nudge me.
I swallowed bile. “Mr. Man, if you want to kidnap me, don’t waste your time. My father disowned me. I’m literally just a beggar right now. No ransom. No value.”
Still no answer.
The bike leaned hard into turns. My thighs clamped instinctively around the tank. His body enveloped mine—chest to back, arms caging me in front, thighs bracketing mine. I hated how solid he felt. How controlled. How completely he ignored my words.
I let my fate settle over me like wet concrete. I had been through hell. What more could happen?
The city lights thinned. We turned onto a familiar street. My stomach plummeted again not from speed this time, but recognition.
The cheap hotel.
The same yellow sign flickered ahead: “Albergo Economico.” The same glass door where the receptionist had screamed “thief” and stolen my chain.
“No,” I whispered. Then louder. “No!”
I twisted violently, trying to throw myself off. His arm tightened like a steel band. The bike slowed to a crawl in front of the entrance.
He killed the engine. Silence rushed in, broken only by my ragged breathing inside the helmet.
I fought harder my elbows, knees, nails digging into his leather sleeves. He dismounted in one fluid motion, grabbed me under the arms, and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. My world inverted. Blood rushed to my head. The helmet slipped sideways.
“Let me go!” I screamed, pounding his back with my fists. My legs kicked wildly. “I swear I didn’t steal the diamond waist chain! It was mine! I didn’t mean to bite the policemen! I swear!”
He ignored me. Boots thudded up the steps. The glass door swung open. The bell jingled same cheerful sound that had betrayed me before.
Inside, the lobby smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke. The receptionist the same stylish, manicured man looked up from behind the counter. His eyes widened in recognition. Then in triumph.
Around his neck, glinting under the fluorescent lights, hung my diamond waist chain draped like a trophy over his purple shirt, catching every light and throwing tiny rainbows across the faded wallpaper.
“What the in hell the fuck is going on ? Can’t I ever have at-least one good day ?!”
I screamed out of frustration.