I like to think that I've lived a hundred lives.
I've been a young waitress in France with the goal of bringing joy to people's lives. I've been an heiress chased by a reporter through the vibrant streets of Rome. I've been a cancer-stricken father struggling to raise his children while dealing with an alcoholic spouse.
But now I don't think watching foreign films, days on end counts as living.
The reality of my life can be summed up into one word: mundane.
I've done nothing. I've seen nothing. Not in real life. Not in the flesh.
Not really.
They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you die. I see nothing.
A blank canvas that has yet to be painted. A starless night. A black vortex.
A void.
"Are you going to kill me?" I whisper as Mr. Smith guides me down the scarcely lit sidewalk, the sharp November air prickling at my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
A couple passes us on the street, neither of them paying attention to me, neither of them noticing the terror on my face. So oblivious. So fucking useless.
Do I scream? Do I yell for help?
The bank had cameras. He didn't care. He'll shoot me. On the spot. And then he'd shoot whoever would try to help me. I know he would. I don't know how I know that. But I do.
"Keep walking," he commands, pressing the pistol harder into my back as he pulls out his cellphone and types a message, the brief clicking of the keyboard indicates that it's a short text. I would think you would need more than three words to explain this situation to someone.
"Who are you?" I ask with a shaky breath, my eyes dry, surprisingly no tears. Mr. Smith ignores me. "Just let me go. I won't say anything, I promise."
"You are walking too fast. You need to relax and slow down," he notes in a gruff tone. "We do not need to draw unwanted attention."
Is he being serious right now? We? That's exactly what I want to do. Bring on the attention. All the attention. If I had a horn, I'd blow it.
Or...
Or maybe I wouldn't.
Everyone knows about fight or flight, a person's instinctive response to stress or trauma. But there's also freeze. And fawn.
I think I'm freezing.
But I refuse to fawn.
"It's kind of hard to relax when you have a gun pointed at my L2 vertebrae," I murmur mindlessly as we turn into a dark alley.
Fuck. I've seen enough movies to know that an alley means death.
"Turn around," he states in a soft tone and I close my eyes, turning towards him, my breathing ragged, uneven.
This is so fucking stupid. I did that motherfucker a favor. I helped him! And now he's going to kill me? In an alley? Not even a glamorous death.
How upsetting. How infuriating. How unfair.
Opening my eyes, I find myself teetering away from fear and edging closer towards frustration, anger.
"I saved your goddamn life," I say, clenching my fists as I stare into the barrel of his gun. "Is this how you repay kindness? By killing innocent women?"
"Unfortunately you are incorrect, Kiara," he says, a melancholy smile on his face. "As you so astutely pointed out, this bomb is not real, thus I was never in any real danger."
I narrow my eyes at him. "A technicality."
Mr. Smith lets out a low chuckle. "A grave one," he says, taking a step closer to me, adjusting his grip on the gun. "It is a shame though-" His pitch-black eyes skimming my face. "To rid the world of such beauty."
"If that case, you can always let me go," I breathe, ignoring the rising of my traitorous chest. "Preserve the beauty...so to speak."
"I do not make messes, I cannot clean up," he says, an apologetic glimmer in his eyes. "And you are, regretfully, a mess."
"I-"
My response is interrupted by the ringing of his cellphone. He's not seriously going to answer his phone, is he?
"Pronto," he says, lowering the gun as he props the phone against his ear.
Oh, okay. He's answering. Not like he's in the middle of attempted murder or anything. He begins pacing, turning away from me. I look around. Of course, nowhere to run. I guess I'll just stand here and wait for my untimely demise.
What an anticlimactic end to my anticlimactic life.
Several seconds pass by, Mr. Smith's back still turned to me. His attention focused on whoever he's barking orders to on the phone. My gaze snaps to the pistol, hanging so precariously off of his index finger. He really is quite cocky, isn't he?
Maybe I could—
Manifesting the energy of a prima ballerina, I gracefully glide towards Mr. Smith, ensuring that my feet make no noise, that I don't breathe, that silence surrounds us. When I'm mere inches away, I suck in a sharp breath, latching onto the gun, snatching it from his fingers, his head whipping towards me. But he's too late.
Holy crap, this thing is heavy. Using both hands, I extend my arms and point the gun at Mr. Smith, a sense of murky pride spreading through my body.
"Let me go," I state, flexing my muscles so that my arms don't shake.
I'm in charge now. I have the power.
Mr. Smith sighs. "I will see you in five minutes, Marchello," he says in Italian. "I need to solve a little problem first." He hangs up, tilting his head to the side as he stalks towards me. What is he doing? Is he crazy? "Kiara put down the Beretta. It does not suit you."
I re-grip the pistol. "Seeing as I'm the one with the gun, I'll be making the demands," I state, taking a step back as he continues walking towards me. "How do you plan on solving this little problem without the upper hand?"
"Hmm," he hums, licking his lips, taking three large strides in my direction, forcing me to retreat back further, until my back is hitting the brick wall. "You know Italian?"
"I know a lot of things," I whisper as his chest meets the tip of the pistol.
Oh God, he's a lunatic. Does he think I won't shoot?! I will. I fucking will.
"Is that so?" Mr. Smith chuckles, clicking his tongue. "Do you know what a safety is?"
What?
In the millisecond it takes for my gaze to lower down to the weapon, he's already snatching the pistol out of my hands, his fingers snaking around my neck, knocking my head back into the wall, his grip restricting airflow, making me choke.
"Such a silly girl," he whispers, his calloused thumb grazing along my quivering bottom lip, his sweet breath blowing into my mouth. "You never take your eyes off your target."
"I don't want to die," I gasp, his fingers loosening around my throat but not letting go. "Please."
"You will either die by my hand," he whispers, caressing my jawline, his body plush against mine, the jagged blocks of the fake bomb pressing into my chest. "Or by the Russians." He pauses, his charcoal eyes meeting mine. "It is better this way, bella. At least I will not torture you first."
"Please..." I close my eyes, fighting back tears, defeat washing over me like a tidal wave as my hand grips his, attempting to drag it down. "Per favore. Ti prego. Non farò niente."
"It does not bring me joy to end such a young and beautiful life," he breathes, dropping his hand, taking a solemn breath. "But begging will not help, even if it's in Italian."
I clench my teeth together. This is it. There's nothing else I can do. I'm out of options. Maybe I'm ready. Yes. I'm ready.
I'm ready.
"Just do i—"
Police sirens blare in the distance, my head snapping towards the wonderful sound.
Oh my God. Yes.
Mr. Smith reaches for his cellphone, a frown marring his brows as he reads a message.
"Cazzo!" he fumes, running a hand through his dark thick hair. "It would seem that destiny has other plans for you, Kiara." He grabs my arm, leading me out of the alley and towards a parked black SUV with tinted windows. The door swings open, revealing two older men in the front seats, both dark-haired and frightening. "Get inside the car."
"No!" I exclaim, the sirens getting louder by the second. They're almost here.
"Get in the fucking car," he commands, pushing me inside and hopping in before slamming the door shut. "Do not scream or I will cut your tongue out before I kill you."
Waiting for death is exhausting.
"How very Russian of you," I counter, eliciting a grin from Mr. Smith. Psycho. "I thought you don't torture people."
"I adjust very quickly," he says, turning his attention to the man in the passenger's seat as the driver pulls out onto the street. "Did you clean up, Marchello?" Mr. Smith asks in Italian.
"Yes, the manager will erase the tapes and our men will discard the bodies," he replies, his eyes briefly darting to me. "I am sorry this happened, Milo. We should've known what they were doing. I'm so sorry. If you want to kill me, I will accept that fate."
Milo? What the fuck...
"I do not wish to spill more blood tonight," Mr. Whoever-the-fuck-he-is says, removing the trench coat, exposing the bomb wrapped around his chest. "We will deal with the Russians later. I would like to take this off now."
"It looks so real." Marchello's eyes widen, examining the various crossed red and blue wires. "How did you know—"
"He didn't," I snap. They're talking like I'm not even here! "I told him." I face Mr. Smith, whose eyes are glinting with subtle amusement. "And who are you exactly?"
"How did you know?" Marchello asks me warily as I keep my eyes on my annoyingly handsome capture. I have serious issues if I'm fantasizing about a man who's going to kill me. This can't be healthy. Oh, God. "That it was fake?"
I sigh, trying to read Mr. Smith's blank expression as he unclips the explosives vest off his body. I really hope it is fake. "I speak Russian," I murmur, wincing as Mr. Smith detaches the last wire and flings the vest to the floor. Oh, thank God. Still alive.
For now.
"You do?" Marchello asks, pursing his impressed lips. "And Italian as well?"
"And French and Spanish and German and Arabic," I mutter absentmindedly, Mr. Smith's groomed brow quirking up as I list off the languages I've learned over the years. "Plus a little Korean. Not a lot though."
"Who are you?" Marchello asks, narrowing his eyes.
Me?
"You first," I state, crossing my arms, my gaze dancing between the two Italians. "Who are you, Mr. Smith? I think I deserve to know the name of the man who will eventually put a bullet in my brain, don't you think? It's not like the dead can talk. Might as well concede to this tiny request."
Leaning back into his seat, his eyes study me intently like he's plotting something. My death, no doubt. With a quick glance at his associate, he reveals in a smooth tone, "Emilio Di Vaio." He pauses, conjuring up a coy smirk. "But those close to me, call me Milo."
I blanch, his last name ringing in my head. Oh, fuck no. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
"D- Di Vaio?" I stammer. "As in..."
He smiles, evidently proud of his mafia ties. "Yes, as in Santi Oscuri."
I nod slowly, realization dawning on me. "And the Russians at the bank...they were...?"
"Bratva," Milo confirms casually with a shrug. "A particular faction of the brotherhood that is causing quite a headache as you might have noticed."
"Uh-huh," I hum. So he wasn't lying when he said the Russians would kill me. They would probably dismember me if they found out I foiled one of their grand plans. "Well thanks for telling me. At least I'll die with all the facts."
Milo glides his fingertips along his lips, cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps there is an alternative solution," he muses, his amber eyes softened, just a bit. "Instead of death, I am now willing to offer you protection."
"What?" I ask, frowning at his sudden change in plans. Marchello looks equally confused but he doesn't question his apparent boss. "Why would you do that?"
"It would be highly beneficial to have someone under my employ with your particular skill set," he explains. "It is not every day one meets a polyglot."
I blink. "So you want to use me as your own personal Google translator?"
He smirks. "I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara, but yes, translating is one of them."
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