Left Behind

~SIENNA POV~

Sunlight cut through the cracked slats of my bedroom blinds, burning straight into my eyes like a flare. I rolled over with a heavy groan, burying my face into the flat pillow while a dull ache hammered against my temples. The red numbers on the bedside clock read twelve-thirty in the afternoon.

So much for morning church. My original plan to make the ten o'clock service had died hours ago, somewhere around the fourth hour of tossing and turning in the dark. I would have to go to the five o'clock evening mass instead. The sanctuary was always quieter at dusk anyway, and right now, the thought of sitting in an empty wooden pew with nobody around sounded like heaven.

My mind refused to let go of the alley. The memories played on a relentless loop behind my eyelids. I saw the dark shadows against the brick wall. I heard the sickening thud of knuckles hitting bone as that monster in the tailored suit broke a man without breaking a sweat. I saw his massive guards watching like gargoyles. Most of all, I saw those freezing blue eyes, stripping me bare under the amber glow of the streetlamp right before that lucky yellow cab pulled up and saved my skin.

I kicked the thin sheets away and swung my bare feet onto the cold floor. Every muscle in my legs felt sore, locked tight from the adrenaline rush and the mad dash I had made through the rain. My brain screamed for caffeine to burn the fog away.

I shuffled down the narrow hallway, my toes gripping the creaking floorboards until I reached the kitchen door.

Cleo was slumped over the counter with her mobile phone pressed to her ear. Her face was swollen, red blotches spreading down her cheeks, and dark streaks of mascara ran down to her jawline. She was sobbing so hard she could barely catch her breath.

When she heard the door creak, her head snapped up. Her jaw dropped open.

Her phone slipped out of her fingers and bounced across the laminate floor with a loud plastic clatter. She let out a shrill scream that rattled the coffee mugs in the sink, stumbling back until her hips hit the radiator.

"Are you... are you dead? Oh God, you're dead! You've come back to haunt me!" she shrieked, clutching her chest.

I stared at her through the haze of my exhaustion, reaching into the wire fruit basket on the counter to grab a green apple.

"Breathe, Cleo," I said flatly.

"Breathe?" Her voice jumped an octave, her hands flying into the air as she dragged her fingers through her messy hair. "I got a terrifying message from you in the middle of the night, you stopped answering your phone, and you just walk in here eating fruit and telling me to breathe?! I was on the phone with Vance Bradley because I thought you were dead in a ditch! Or chopped up into pieces!"

She pressed both palms over her face, dissolving into another round of loud, shuddering sobs. Snot ran over her lip as she gasped for air. I walked past her, pulled a paring knife from the drawer, and grabbed the wooden cutting board to slice the apple.

Cleo lowered her hands, her puffy eyes narrowing as the initial terror turned into sharp indignation.

"Wait a minute. Was this some kind of sick joke?" She stepped closer, jabbing an accusing finger toward my chest. "Did you set this whole thing up just to punish me? Just to make me feel guilty for leaving you at the club? Because if you did, that is cruel, Sienna! That is selfish!"

Something snapped behind my ribs.

I slammed the paring knife down into the wooden board. The heavy crack echoed through the kitchen like a gunshot, the blade biting deep into the pine.

I spun on her, my hands shaking with sudden, blinding anger.

"You dare call me selfish? How about leaving your best friend to walk home alone in the middle of the night in one of the roughest neighborhoods in London because you wanted to hook up with some guy you met an hour ago? I almost got murdered last night because of you, Cleo! I had killers within arm's reach while you were busy in someone's bed! And I am sick of it. I am sick and tired of your reckless, slutty habits. You have a boyfriend at home, yet you chase every man with a pulse. Stop being such a... whore!"

The harsh word hit the kitchen like a blast of cold air.

Cleo froze. The defensive anger drained from her face in an instant, leaving her chalk-white. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes welled up with fresh, silent tears. She did not yell back. She did not throw another accusation.

She just folded in on herself. A broken, breathy sob escaped her throat, and she covered her face with both hands, sinking down onto the edge of the counter as her shoulders shook.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone. I swear I didn't think anything bad would happen. I'm so sorry, Enna." Her voice came out small and cracked, muffled behind her fingers.

Seeing her fall apart like that sucked the rage straight out of me. The heat in my chest turned into a heavy, sickening knot of guilt. Cleo had plenty of flaws, and her impulsive choices drove me insane, but she was the closest thing to a sister I had ever known. We had split rent when we had nothing, shared meals out of tin cans, and survived this city side by side.

I let out a slow, tired breath. Stepping across the kitchen, I pulled her hands away from her face and wrapped my arms around her trembling shoulders.

Cleo buried her face into my neck, clutching my t-shirt like a lifeline while she cried. Her hot tears soaked into the fabric, but I held her tight, resting my chin on top of her head.

"I'm alright," I murmured softly, rubbing her back until her breathing leveled out. "I'm right here."

"I thought I lost you," she whispered, her voice hitching.

"You didn't." I pushed her back just enough to look into her tear-stained eyes, forcing a faint, teasing smirk to my lips. "Besides, whoever that tall, dark devil was, I made sure he won't be walking straight or having kids anytime soon."

Cleo let out a wet, startled laugh that turned into a sniffle. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her robe, her lips curving into a weak smile.

"Did you really kick him?" she asked.

"Right between the legs with everything I had," I told her, grabbing a paper towel to hand to her. "He dropped like a stone."

That broke the tension. We made a plate of buttered toast and brewed a large pot of dark roast coffee, sitting across from each other at the small wooden table. Between sips of hot coffee, I told her the whole story. I described the dark alley, the enforcer who looked like a tank, the stranger in the tailored suit who spoke fluent Spanish, and those freezing, electric blue eyes that looked right through my soul. Cleo listened without interrupting once, her fingers gripping her mug so hard her knuckles turned white.

By late afternoon, the shadows in the living room lengthened. Cleo stood up from the sofa and announced she was coming to church with me. She insisted she needed to light a candle and beg for divine mercy before her guilt ate her alive.

I spent the next half hour waiting by the front door, tapping my foot while she tore through her closet.

When her bedroom door finally swung open, my jaw dropped. Cleo stepped into the corridor draped in solid, mourning black from head to toe. A dark lace dress reached her ankles, complemented by dark gloves and a sheer black veil pinned over her curls.

"We are going to a simple Catholic mass, not a Victorian funeral," I remarked, smoothing down the front of my light green floral sundress.

Cleo scoffed, adjusting the lace near her jaw. "Penance demands drama, Enna. What is that little thing you are wearing?"

"I look like a normal human being going to church on a Sunday," I shot back, adjusting the strap of my small handbag and checking my white block heels. "You look like the grieving widow of an oil baron."

"Give me ten minutes to change," she groaned, turning back toward her room.

"Not a chance. We are leaving right now." I grabbed my key ring from the bowl and turned the lock on the front door. "Mass starts at five. If you want forgiveness, you better run."

I stepped out into the hallway and let the door swing shut behind me. Within three seconds, the hurried clack of high heels echoed down the corridor. Cleo sprinted after me, slipping past the elevator doors just as the metal panels began to slide together.

The old lift groaned and rattled, slowly descending six floors. At the fourth floor, three elderly neighbors stepped in. They huddled together in the opposite corner, whispering to one another while throwing bewildered glances at Cleo's funeral veil. Neither of us paid them any attention.

A dull chime sounded as the lift hit the first floor.

The metal doors slid open, revealing the small ground-floor lobby. Cleo took two steps forward, then froze instantly in her tracks.

She let out a sharp, audible gasp that made the neighbors jump.

I stepped around her to look out through the wide glass doors leading to the curb, and the breath vanished from my lungs.

Parked directly in front of our grimy, oil-stained apartment entrance, gleaming under the golden slant of the evening sun, was a car that did not belong in this part of town. Or this part of reality.

A midnight blue Rolls-Royce Boat Tail.

The paint shimmered like a polished sapphire, flawless and without a single speck of street dust. Its sleek lines, brushed metal trim, and handcrafted wooden rear deck looked like a luxury yacht dropped into an alleyway of rusted sedans and overflowing dumpsters.

"What on earth is a twenty-eight million dollar hypercar doing parked in our trashy neighborhood?" Cleo whispered, her voice trembling in utter shock.

I could not answer her.

An icy knot tightened around my throat, squeezing until I could barely draw air. The windows of the vehicle were blacked out, hiding whatever sat behind them. But the sleek beast was idling quietly, dark exhaust drifting into the cool air, waiting directly outside our door.