Chapter 70 KEYS

Chapter 70 KEYS
“Keys,” he says calmly.

I stare at him, defiant even as terror coils tight in my stomach.

“I don’t have any,” I choke out.

I didn't even know the car belonged to Dante. I walked here all the way from the club, did he follow me?

He searches my face, judging whether I’m lying. After a moment, he exhales through his nose and reaches for the car handle.

The door opens.

Everything happens at once.

He shoves me into the back seat, hard enough that I lose my balance and tumble across the leather. The door slams shut before I can scramble back out. The lock clicks down, loud and final.

“No,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

My hands shake as I push myself upright. I lunge for the opposite door just as the engine roars to life.

The car jerks forward.

I’m thrown back against the seat, heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it from the front.

“Stop the car!” I scream, pounding on the glass. “Stop! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”

He checks the rearview mirror.

Our eyes meet.

For the first time, I see something flicker across his face. Not fear. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

“Oh,” he says quietly, turning his attention back to the road. “I know exactly who I’m messing with.”

The city blurs past outside the window, lights streaking and bending until they’re meaningless. My mind races, grasping at fragments, at plans, at anything that might give me control.

Dante.

My phone.

Fuck.

My phone is still on the counter.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut.

He doesn’t know where I am. He doesn’t know this is happening. I was waiting for him. I didn’t tell anyone else.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe.

Think.

I scan the interior of the car. The handles are useless, he's locked the car. Nothing I can reach. Windows are dark and sealed. The front seats are separated from me by a solid divider.

Professional.

Of course.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

He doesn’t answer.

“Who sent you?” I press.

Silence.

My nails dig into my palms. Anger flares, hot and sharp, cutting through the fear.

“You think Dante won’t come for me?” I say. “You think this ends well for you?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s humoring a child.

“That depends,” he says. “On how cooperative you are.”

My stomach twists.

Cooperative.

The word echoes in my head, ugly and loaded.

The car turns sharply, tires hissing against the road. We leave the main streets behind, plunging into darker, quieter roads. Warehouses. Abandoned buildings. Places no one goes unless they mean to disappear.

My throat tightens.

I press my forehead against the cold glass and close my eyes for a second, fighting the wave of panic threatening to pull me under.

This is real.

I’ve been threatened before. I watched violence. Felt danger curl close to my skin.

But this is different.

This is me.

Alone.

Taken.

The car slows, then stops.

My heart stutters.

The engine idles. The silence presses in, heavy and suffocating.

He gets out.

I hear his footsteps crunch on gravel, the soft thud of a door opening somewhere nearby.

The back door opens.

Cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of oil and damp concrete.

He looks down at me, expression unreadable.

“Out,” he says.

I don’t move.

He sighs, irritation flickering briefly across his face, then reaches in and grabs my arm again. This time, I don’t fight. My body feels too light, too heavy, all at once.

He pulls me out of the car and toward a large metal door set into the side of a building.

As we move, one thought pounds louder than the rest.

Dante will come.

He has to.

Because if he doesn’t…

I don’t know how this ends.

And for the first time since I met Dante Marchetti, fear eclipses desire completely.