Familiar Shadows

SIENNA’S POV

Cleo flatly refused to cross the stone threshold of the chapel. She leaned against a stone pillar near the entrance, crossing her lace-draped arms and claiming the holy water would set her skin on fire the second she stepped inside. I left her perched on a sunlit bench by the courtyard steps, took a deep breath, and pushed through the heavy wooden doors.

Cool air rushed over my bare arms. The interior was dim, quiet, and cavernous, lit only by candles flickering in ruby-red glass cups and broad beams of afternoon sun cutting through the stained-glass windows. Fractured shards of crimson and cobalt painted the polished mahogany pews. The quiet felt heavy, but it was the kind of heavy that let a person breathe.

My heels made soft tapping sounds against the flagstone floor as I walked down the center aisle. I slipped into a pew near the front, dropped onto the padded wooden kneeler, and pressed my palms together.

This was always the hardest part of my week—staring at the altar while my thoughts ran in circles. I crossed myself with slow, practiced motions, then lowered my head.

"Hey God. It's me again." My voice was just a dry rasp against the stone, barely audible over the faint hiss of burning wax. "You already know my name, so I'll skip the introduction. I just wanted to say thank you for last night. I came close to losing my life out there, and I know You had a hand in getting me home. You've been keeping me alive for years, honestly. Like when I drank engine oil at five years old, or when I nearly drowned at eight, or when I shattered Mama's good porcelain and thought she would end me on the spot."

A faint laugh broke from my throat, though my chest remained tight.

"Please watch over Cleo, too. One of these days I will drag her inside this building for confession, and when I do, that poor priest will need all the patience in heaven not to run out the back door. And please bless the cab driver who hit the gas last night. Give the man a raise, and maybe fix his temper while You're at it. Amen."

I took a slow breath, held it, and rose from the kneeler. As I smoothed the wrinkles from my green sundress, a prickly sensation crawled across the back of my neck.

I turned my head toward the back of the nave.

Several rows behind me, sitting in the shadows beneath a mural of Saint Michael, was a man. He wore a dark tailored suit that cut sharp lines against the dim wood. His hands were clasped beneath his chin, his long fingers steepled. He was not praying. He was watching me. His gaze felt heavy, cold, and sharp, pinning me where I stood.

A cold wave rolled through my stomach. His broad shoulders and dark silhouette carried an unsettling familiarity that set every survival instinct screaming in my skull. I did not wait to see his face. I spun around, gripped my purse tight against my ribs, and walked briskly down the side aisle toward the sunlit doors.

The warm street air hit my face like a slap as I pushed through the exit. Cleo was already on her feet, tossing her phone into her purse and linking her arm through mine before I could even clear the front steps.

Cleo steered me down the pavement with zero hesitation. "Ice cream. A trauma like yours requires double-scoop gelato, and I am paying."

Ten minutes later, we were strolling down the crowded sidewalk. Cleo tore through her chocolate waffle cone with ravenous speed, leaving dark crumbs across the front of her black top. I held my lemon cup in one numb hand, the cold plastic biting into my fingers, while my eyes repeatedly scanned the slow-moving traffic on the street.

Cleo pointed with her spoon toward the curb behind us and mumbled around a mouthful of fudge. "Tell me I'm not crazy. Is today international luxury car parade day, or what?"

I stopped walking. My eyes tracked back along the edge of the street.

Creeping through the London traffic at five miles an hour was the same midnight blue Rolls-Royce Boat Tail from outside our flat. Its metallic paint gleamed under the afternoon glare, radiant and monstrous among the beat-up hatchbacks and red double-decker buses. It kept a steady, predatory distance of two car lengths behind us, matching our steps with sinister patience.

A sharp buzz shook against my right hip.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers shaking as I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up with an unsaved number.

*You look very beautiful, Kitten.*

The breath caught in my windpipe. A cold drop of sweat slid down the base of my skull. I froze on the pavement, staring down at the glowing words until they burned into my retinas. I looked up and swept my eyes across the passing crowds, the store windows, the outdoor patio tables. Nobody looked back. Through the pitch-black tint of the Rolls-Royce windows, nothing was visible.

Cleo grabbed my forearm and yanked me toward a sidewalk stand set up beside a row of brick shops. "TACOS!"

"Cleo, lower your voice," I hissed, shoving the phone back into my pocket while my heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird.

She did not care. She ordered two servings of carnitas, handed over the cash, and leaned against the counter with a grin. The smell of grilled meat and cilantro filled the air, but my stomach was twisted so tight that the scent made me nauseous.

We took the paper plates and started walking again toward the corner. Cleo took a massive bite, her mouth full as she started chattering about her weekend.

"He was built like a brick wall," she said, eyes wide with delight. "Tattoos everywhere, right up his neck. It was like sleeping with a piece of dangerous modern art. I drooled on his arm twice. He had to turn me onto my stomach just to save his sheets."

A mother pushing a stroller nearby shot Cleo a look of pure disgust. Cleo ignored her.

Cleo continued without missing a beat. "And the way his hands felt around my neck, Enna, it was miraculous. Pure heaven. I haven't had someone choke me like that since my university track coach."

"Cleo, stop talking!" Heat rushed to my cheeks as an older couple crossed the street to get away from us. "People can hear every word coming out of your mouth."

Cleo rolled her eyes, licking hot sauce from her thumb. "They aren't looking at me, Enna. They're looking at that ridiculous car that has been crawling behind us for three straight blocks. Creepy, right?"

"Maybe they're just lost," I lied, though the lie tasted like ash on my tongue.

Cleo peered over her shoulder. "Nobody gets lost in that thing. We should walk over there and knock on the glass. Ask them what their problem is."

"Do not do that. We are walking straight home," I warned, tugging her wrist.

The pain in my feet flared with every step on the uneven pavement. My white block heels were pinching my toes, making quick movement agonizing.

We turned the corner past a darkened storefront, and the hair on my arms stood on end.

A man stepped directly out from the shadow of the brick building, planting his polished leather shoes across the concrete and cutting off our path.

He was towering, broad-shouldered, and built like a tank inside a charcoal suit. Dark designer sunglasses hid his eyes, but the hard angle of his jaw was like carved stone. He did not slouch, and he did not blink. The air around him felt cold and heavy, carrying the faint scent of expensive cologne and iron.

"Excuse me, señora. My boss would like to offer you a ride," he said, his voice a low, raspy rumble that brooked no argument.

I shoved Cleo behind my back, my fingers digging into her lace sleeve. "No, thank you. We prefer walking. Step out of our way."

The man did not move an inch. Instead, he took a half-step forward, closing the space between us until his shadow swallowed mine.

"It wasn't a request," he said flatly.

Panic surged straight into my throat. Pedestrians on the sidewalk began slowing down, keeping their distance, watching the standoff with nervous eyes.

"I do not care who your boss is. We are not getting into that car, and we are not interested in talking to him," I said, pitching my voice loud enough to echo down the brick corridor.

Cleo peeked over my shoulder. "Well, she isn't interested. I might be, depending on his bank account."

"Cleo, shut your mouth!" I snapped. I looked directly into the dark lenses of the bodyguard's glasses. "You think just because you roll up in an absurd car we will hop in like helpless idiots? That is how people vanish off the street! That is how kidnappings happen!"

I threw my hands out, addressing the pedestrians hovering on the opposite curb. "Are you people just going to stand there and watch two women get abducted in broad daylight? Call the police!"

Not a single person reached for a phone. A middle-aged man in a trench coat hurried away, keeping his eyes on the ground. A young woman grabbed her dog's leash and crossed to the other side of the street. Nobody wanted to cross a giant in an Italian suit.

"Ma'am. Do not make this difficult," the bodyguard said, stepping closer.

Before he could reach inside his coat, Cleo let out a wild shriek.

She swung her heavy leather handbag with both hands, whipping the studded metal base straight through the air. The heavy metal rivets connected with a sharp crack against the side of the man's jaw.

The bodyguard grunted, stumbling back two paces, his sunglasses knocked crooked across his nose. A sharp hiss crackled in the tiny black earpiece tucked into his ear. His jaw set hard, his posture stiffening as an unseen voice spoke into his head.

He adjusted his glasses and muttered through gritted teeth. "Understood, sir."

He shot us a venomous glare before retreating toward a second suited man waiting by the curb.

"Run!" Cleo screamed.

We did not look back. We sprinted toward the street, our shoes smacking against the concrete, waving our arms at an approaching black cab. The driver saw our frantic waving and slammed his brakes, pulling hard against the curb.

I yanked the rear passenger door open. We threw ourselves inside, tumbling onto the worn vinyl seats, and slammed the door shut so hard the metal rattled.

"Drive! Just drive, go!" I yelled at the driver, panting for air as my lungs burned.

The driver hit the gas, and the cab jerked forward, merging into the stream of London traffic.

Silence fell over the cabin. It was thick and heavy, filled only with the sound of our ragged breathing and the dull rattle of the car's loose exhaust. My palms were damp against the strap of my bag. My knees were shaking so hard they knocked together. Beside me, Cleo was staring down at her studded bag, her knuckles white.

Traffic slowed near an intersection, bringing us to a crawl between two delivery vans.

Cleo turned her head toward the passenger window, sucking in a sharp, fragile breath. "Enna..."

My stomach dropped into nothingness.

I turned my head toward the glass.

Gliding smoothly beside our rattling cab was the midnight blue Rolls-Royce Boat Tail. The sapphire paint reflected the gray asphalt like glass. It was so close that only a foot of space separated the two vehicles.

With a quiet mechanical hum, the heavy tinted window of the rear passenger seat began to slide down.

The glass disappeared into the door frame, revealing the man sitting inside.

He was leaning back against the cream leather upholstery, poised and relaxed. His tailored charcoal jacket was open at the collar, revealing the sharp hollow of his throat. But it was his face that stopped my heart. High, aristocratic cheekbones, a sharp jaw shadowed by dark stubble, and eyes as cold and piercing as glacial ice.

They were the same eyes from the alleyway.

He did not blink. His gaze locked onto mine through the double pane of glass, pinning me down like a mounted butterfly. There was no hesitation in his stare, only terrifying ownership.

Slowly, deliberately, the corner of his mouth curved upward into a mocking smile.

The phone in my lap gave a short, hard vibration.

I looked down with numb, trembling fingers. A new message sat on the illuminated screen.

*Next time, don’t make me ask twice, Amore.*