Stolen: Dante's Vow

It’s heavy and warm and I smell him on it. Something about the gesture makes me want to cry.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” When I don’t reply he tries again, voice louder. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I draw back at his tone. He sounds angry.

He mutters a curse under his breath and shakes his head. “Okay, let’s go,” he says. He steps out of the chopper then turns to me. When I don’t move right away, he just reaches in and lifts me out like I weigh nothing. I grip his shoulders for balance. He’s big. Strong and solid. And for one instant, we remain like that, him staring up at me, me down at him, the blades of the chopper whipping my hair around.

He shifts my position so he’s cradling me against his chest. He ducks his head and carries me to a door that one of his men is holding open. He feels different than Petrov. Holds me differently.

The sound of the chopper’s blades fade as the door closes behind us and we’re moving up a staircase. It’s dark inside, the lamps barely lighting our way. The boots of the men ahead of us are loud against the metal stairs. But a few minutes later, once we’ve climbed another shorter set of stairs, we’re inside what looks like a large warehouse. The walls are unpainted brick, the exposed beams supporting the roof.

He sets me down. The cement floor is cold against my bare feet, although it’s not as cold as it is outside.

I back away a few steps and take it all in. Eye-patch man talks to one of the others but keeps watching me. There’s a kitchen against one wall. It’s all stainless steel, wood and brick. The table has six chairs around it and behind me is a living space with a few leather couches, a coffee table. Sitting on top is a bottle of whiskey and a half-full glass. A large television is mounted on the wall.

Someone starts some music. It’s loud, heavy metal. Not the classical Petrov always listened to. I like it.

Most of the walls don’t have windows, but the ones that do are made up of small panes framed inside steel that span from floor to ceiling. A hallway leads to half a dozen closed doors. I wonder what this place was. Not a home, or not meant to be.

I hear my name then and turn to find eye-patch man watching me but talking to someone on his phone. His eyebrows are furrowed, gaze intent on me. He nods at whatever the other person is saying.

One of the men laughs from the kitchen area and I look over to find them standing around the counter, drinking beers. They’re quick to adjust their expressions when they see me watching them. A moment later, eye-patch man disconnects the call, tucks the phone in his pocket and comes toward me.

I take a step back. Instinct. I’m always backing away from men.

He stops, puts his hands up, palms toward me. “I’m not going to hurt you, Mara.”

My heart thuds. He knows I’m Mara. Not Elizabeth.

“I knew you before,” he continues. “A long time ago. I used to bandage your knees when you cut them. Tie your shoelaces.”

I feel my forehead wrinkle as I listen to him.

“I’m Dante. Lizzie’s big brother.”

Dante? No. Dante is dead. They’re all dead. I know because I watched them die.

Is this a trick? A game of Petrov’s? His latest, cruelest punishment?

“Do you remember me?” he asks.

I don’t reply.

“Do you remember Lizzie?” He takes another step toward me, and I realize I’m shaking my head as I back up.

“You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, Mara.”

I shake it more frantically. “I’m not Mara,” I say, my voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

He stops when he hears me, smiles. “You understand me.”

Why wouldn’t I understand him?

I clear my throat so he can hear me. “I’m not Mara. I’m Elizabeth.”

There’s a shift in the energy of the room. “No, you’re not.” His voice grows hard like he’s angry. He must see my panic at this change because he takes a deep breath in and sounds calmer when he speaks. “Lizzie had green eyes like mine. And she didn’t have a star-shaped birthmark on the back of her shoulder.” He gestures to my right shoulder.

How does he know about my birthmark?

“It’s small. Probably smaller now. You’ve grown up,” he says, peering around as if to see it. “But if you know where to look, you can see it.” He sounds sad as he faces me once more. “And then there’s the fact that my sister died fifteen years ago.”

I shake my head hard as he blurs through the tears that fill my eyes. I know. I know she died. I watched her die. But this isn’t safe. I’m not safe if they know the truth.