HELENA’S POV
I woke to an empty bed, cool sheets where Dante’s warmth should’ve been. A sliver of morning light crept through the window, casting shadows over the stillness of the hotel room. Groggy, I reached for my phone on the nightstand. 8:07 a. m. When had Dante slipped out? I pushed back a flicker of unease, but my chest tightened. Why hadn’t he woken me?
I crossed the room to the small balcony, pulling back the curtains and letting the pale dawn spill in. Outside, the streets were deserted, save for a young guy huddled in a doorway, cigarette smoke curling in lazy spirals around him. I closed my eyes, trying to shake off the weird feeling creeping through me, then glanced down at my phone, dialing Dante’s number.
Straight to voicemail.
My heart kicked. I knew I was probably overthinking-Dante was capable, even in a strange city. But what if he’d gotten curious and wandered off? Or worse-what if his memory had… slipped? What if he didn’t remember me, didn’t know where to return?
To calm my nerves, I placed my phone on the table and ordered coffee and a croissant. I was midway through a hesitant bite when my phone buzzed against the tabletop. Dante’s name flashed on the screen, and relief flooded me as I answered.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to-”
“Hello, mon cheri.”
The words hit me like ice. That voice-smooth, with a soft lilt I’d know anywhere. My stomach dropped. I knew only one person that called me that, and he had no business holding Dante’s phone to call me.
“Francis?”
There was a pause, then a low, amused hum.
“Where’s Dante? What are you doing with his phone calling me?
“He’s right here with me. Thought we’d give you a call.” His thick French accent slicked through.
The room suddenly felt colder, my skin prickling with goosebumps. Francis had always been kind, harmless even, maybe a little eccentric and feminine. But I couldn’t shake the wrongness in his voice now, like a whispering shadow.
“Why don’t you come join us instead?” His voice was airy, playful, but there was an edge lurking in it that I’d never heard before. “We’re at Francois. You remember-the basement where we’d smoke after hours, just you and me till our fingers burned from the spliff”
“Just… give my husband the damn phone,” I demanded, irritation mingling with fear.
“We’re waiting for you, mon cheri.” The line clicked dead, leaving only the soft hum of silence.
For a long minute, I just stood there, heart pounding as my brain scrambled to make sense of what had just happened. Francis. Why was he with Dante? My mind circled the question, an instinctive dread coiling inside me. Quickly, I threw on jeans and a sweater, bundling myself in a jacket as I rushed out of the hotel.
The streets blurred past as I made my way to Francois. It was still early, but I walked fast, my pulse thrumming with each step. When I reached the old basement, the door was cracked open. My stomach tightened. I remembered this place well-the scent of stale smoke, Francis’s laughter ringing off the walls. It’d been five years, a lot had changed, so much that I had no control over.
Steeling myself, I stepped inside. Almost immediately, a hand seized my arm, yanking me forward. The door shut behind me with a loud clang, enveloping me in a strange darkness that my eyes could never adjust to. The grip on my arm tightened.
“Francis!” I called, voice shaky as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The overhead light flickered on, illuminating the dingy room.
The sight before me made my blood turn to ice. Dante sat bound to a chair, his dark hair falling over his face, his hands tied to the armrests. A cloth was wrapped around his mouth, his eyes blazing as they locked onto mine. A group of men stood scattered across the room, eyes cold and watchful.
“Dante…” My voice cracked as I tried to move forward, but the man holding me held me firmly in place. I twisted against his grip, my mind racing.
Footsteps sounded behind me, slow and deliberate, until Francis emerged from the shadows. He wore a twisted smile, his eyes gleaming with something I’d never seen before.
“You came,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with something darker.
“What… what’s going on?” I stammered, my gaze darting between him and Dante. “Why is he tied up? Who are these people?”
Francis tilted his head, that sickly smile stretching wider. “Just friends of mine. The kind who do… whatever I ask.”
“What are you talking about?” My voice was barely a whisper, disbelief muddling my thoughts as I struggled against the man holding me. This was Francis-the same Francis who’d held my hand through late nights, who’d treated me with such tenderness. It didn’t make sense.
“Oh, Helena,” he sighed, the softness in his voice sending a chill down my spine. “It finally makes sense, doesn’t it? Why you left me, why I wasn’t enough. I was too soft, too gentle… you prefer men like him.” His gaze drifted to Dante, who glared defiantly, his shoulders tense against his bindings.
I shook my head, my voice trembling. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just… let us go, okay? You don’t have to do this, Francis. We’ll leave, and you won’t ever have to see us again.”
His expression hardened, and he closed the distance between us, lifting a hand to brush my cheek. His touch was featherlight, but it felt suffocating. I jerked my head away, and he laughed softly.
“Oh, but I do have to,” he murmured, eyes flicking to his men. “I need you to see, Helena, that I can be just as dangerous.”
At his signal, the men sprang forward. My breath caught as they began to beat Dante, blows landing with sickening thuds. He groaned, straining against the ropes as they struck him again and again. My heart twisted, horror and helplessness mixing as I watched, desperate. I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t help him and it felt like a knife twisting in my guts especially when he had saved me time and time again and here I was helplessly watching them beat the shit out of him.
“Please stop! Francis, don’t-don’t do this!” I pleaded, my voice raw with desperation. But Francis wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed on Dante, a strange light in his eyes, like he was savoring every brutal hit.
And then he pulled a gun from his coat, the metallic glint catching the light as he leveled it at Dante. My breath caught, my pulse pounding wildly. His gaze met mine, and I saw his intent. He wasn’t bluffing.
Desperation gave me strength. Without thinking, I drove my elbow into the stomach of the man holding me, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. I stumbled forward, reaching Dante just as a gunshot rang out. The sound shattered the air, and everything went still as the echo faded into silence.