The Parking Garage

BEATRIX'S POINT OF VIEW

My heels clicked in a hollow rhythm against the concrete floor. The late-night parking garage of my hotel felt too quiet, a vast, echoing cave bathed in the sickly yellow glare of fluorescent lights. Shadows stretched from behind concrete pillars and parked cars. I rubbed my temples. Confronting Dante and my family had drained whatever fight I had left. My chest felt hollowed out, leaving behind a cold, bitter clarity. All I wanted was the safety of my room. I needed to lock the door, ice my face, and figure out my next move.

My phone vibrated in my purse. I pulled it out. *Cecelia.* My thumb hovered over the decline button. The screen glowed briefly before the signal indicator dropped to a single bar, then flatlined. No service.

A heavy scuff of a shoe scraped the concrete behind me.

I froze. The ambient hum of the garage felt deafening. I gripped the strap of my purse and quickened my pace. The elevator bay sat just around the corner, glowing fifty feet away. If I hurried—

"Going somewhere, Mrs. Navarro?"

A man stepped out from the shadows of a cement pillar, blocking my path to the elevator. He wore a crisp black suit, his shoulders broad and posture rigid. Two more men materialized from the darkness behind me, cutting off my exit. They moved silently. Calculated.

This was no random mugging.

I slipped my hand inside my purse, my fingers wrapping around the cold canister of pepper spray I bought after signing those divorce papers. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I kept my chin high.

"It's Ms. Winslow," I said, my voice steady. "And you are in my way."

The lead man let out a low, amused chuckle. He took a slow step forward. "I'm afraid your plans have changed."

I did not wait for his next sentence. Pure adrenaline flooded my veins. I whipped the canister out, aimed directly at his face, and pressed the trigger. The thick stream of pepper spray caught him dead in the eyes.

He roared, clapping his hands over his face as he stumbled backward. I kicked off my designer heels, the leather scraping off my feet, and sprinted for the elevator bay. The concrete bit into my bare soles. I heard heavy boots thundering behind me, the other two men shouting commands. I pumped my arms, my eyes locked on the elevator buttons. Just a few more yards.

A brutal grip seized a fistful of my hair. The force yanked my head back so hard my neck popped. I screamed as the man ripped me backward, throwing my balance. My purse flew from my shoulder, scattering lipstick, keys, and cards across the dirty floor.

Rough hands grabbed my arms, hauling me upright and pinning me in place. I thrashed, kicking my bare feet at their shins, but their grips were like iron vises.

The leader stumbled over, his face red and leaking fluid. He wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve, panting with rage. "Our employer warned us you might be difficult. Said you needed to learn your place."

*Cecelia.* Her name echoed in my mind like a death knell. This was her brand of cruelty. She needed to make sure I understood the power dynamic, to crush whatever shred of dignity I walked away with.

I glared at the weeping man through the dim light. "If you plan to kill me," I spat, my voice laced with venom, "at least have the guts to look me in the eyes while you do it."

The leader let out a wet, mocking laugh. "Kill you? We don't have a kill order, Ms. Winslow. Just a message. A painful reminder for those who don't know when to let go."

He drew his arm back and drove his fist directly into my stomach.

The impact folded me in half. The air blasted out of my lungs in a ragged wheeze. Agony flared through my core, bright and blinding. I gagged, struggling to pull air back into my chest, but the men holding my arms jerked me upright again, stretching my torso taut.

"See, some people just don't understand their rank," the leader sneered. He threw a second punch. This one connected hard with my ribs. A sickening, bone-cracking pop echoed in the quiet garage.

A scream tore up my throat, but I choked it down. The metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth. My vision swam with dark spots, the pain radiating in hot waves from my side. My legs gave out, held up only by the thugs anchoring me. But I clamped my jaw shut. I refused to shed a single tear. I would not give Cecelia the satisfaction of breaking my spirit. Let them beat me into the concrete. I would not cry.

The leader pulled his fist back for a third blow.

"That's enough."

The voice sliced through the damp garage air like a steel whip. It was female, cold, and dripping with unquestionable authority.

The hands holding me instantly stiffened. Through my bruised and blurred vision, I forced my head up. A dozen dark figures poured from the shadows of the parking lot, moving with terrifying military precision. Men in tailored suits fanned out, surrounding my attackers in seconds, weapons subtly drawn.

At the center of the formation stood a woman. She was elegant, likely in her fifties, wearing a flawless black designer suit that draped over her tall frame. Her silver hair was styled into an immaculate twist. But it was her sharp, calculating eyes that pinned me. They felt strangely familiar.

"Ma'am," my attacker stuttered, his bravado vanishing. "Our employer—"

"Is about to suffer a terrible fate," the silver-haired woman interrupted, her voice pure ice. "Release her. Immediately."

The men dropped my arms. Without their support, I crumpled to the floor, grasping my side as my broken ribs screamed in protest. I tasted fresh blood on my split lip.

"Secure them," the woman commanded. Her private security team moved in. My attackers dropped to their knees, raising their hands. They knew superior force when they saw it.

The woman stepped closer, her designer heels clicking against the concrete floor. She stopped right in front of me, looking down at my torn dress and bleeding face.

"Beatrix Winslow," she said. It wasn't a question.

I forced myself to sit up, swallowing the blood in my mouth. I tried to pull the torn edges of my neckline together to salvage some shred of dignity. "Do we know each other?" I managed to rasp.

Her sharp eyes softened for a fraction of a second. "No," she replied, raising a manicured hand to signal her men. "Bring the medical kit." She looked back down at me. "But I once knew someone just like you. Someone who also had to learn about trust and betrayal the hard way."

The adrenaline began to fade, leaving only raw, excruciating pain. Every breath felt like a jagged knife plunging into my chest. The edges of the garage turned gray. I swayed, my center of gravity slipping away.

I felt my knees buckle. The concrete floor rushed up to meet me, but I never hit the ground. The woman caught me. She held my weight with surprising strength. As my cheek pressed against the lapel of her expensive suit, a unique, sophisticated perfume enveloped me. It tickled the edges of my fading consciousness, a scent of wealth and hidden power.

"I have been watching you for a very long time, Beatrix," she whispered. Her voice sounded close, yet miles away as the darkness rushed in. "I am going to help you become everything your family tried to prevent."

I let my eyes flutter shut, unable to fight the void any longer. Right before the blackness completely consumed me, her chilling final words brushed my ear.

"After all... you look just like my daughter."