Ruthless Obsession

Chapter 2— Quiet Desperation

Chapter 2 — Quiet Desperation

The barrel of the gun pressed harder against my temple, its icy chill cutting through the rising panic in my chest. I’d been in danger before—so many times I’d lost count—but this was different. This was too close.

“Step out from behind there, hands up where I can see them. Move,” the man growled.

My body obeyed before my brain caught up. I raised my hands slowly, palms open, and stepped out from behind the bar. He followed, staying just a step behind, the gun never leaving my head.

“I don’t have any cash,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Shut up,” he snapped.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for anything—any chance to get out of this alive. But the morning light filtering through the dusty windows revealed only the usual: empty chairs, the scarred pool table, and the jukebox in the corner that hadn’t worked since I started here.

“Downstairs,” he ordered, jerking his head toward the back hallway.

The basement. I felt the air leave my lungs. If he got me down there, it was over.

“I don’t have the keys,” I lied.

The man grabbed my arm, his grip like a vice. “Don’t play games with me. Move.”

Each step toward the basement door felt heavier than the last. My mind raced through every self-defense lesson I’d ever learned, every escape route I’d mapped out in the event my past came back to haunt me. But nothing had prepared me for this.

When we reached the door, he shoved me forward. I stumbled, catching myself against the frame.

“Open it,” he demanded.

My fingers trembled as I twisted the handle. The door creaked open, revealing a steep staircase that led into darkness.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” I said, trying to stall. “This is just a bar. There’s nothing here worth killing me over.”

“Keep walking.”

I hesitated. He pressed the gun harder against my back, and I took the first step down.

The basement smelled damp, like mildew and mugginess. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting a weak glow over the rows of shelves stacked with liquor bottles and cleaning supplies.

“Stop,” he said when we reached the bottom. “Turn around.”

I obeyed turning around to face him, my back to the shelves. His face was shadowed, but his eyes glinted with something I recognized all too well: nothingness. If I made a mistake he was capable of killing me without remorse and I was desperate to make it out of here alive.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You think I don’t know who you are?” he said, his lips curling into a snarl. “You think you can just disappear and no one will find you?”

My blood turned to ice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, shaking my head. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“Cut the crap, Ava,” he spat, using my real name like a weapon.

I froze.

“No one runs from Victor Delacroix,” he continued, stepping closer. “He’s got eyes everywhere. You should’ve known he’d send someone eventually.”

The room spun. The past five years flashed across my eyes in an instant, every effort put into piecing Lila Hayes into existence and burying Ava Delacroix crumbling at the mention of that one name.

“You’re making a mistake,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Trying to keep the tremors away. “I don’t—”

He lunged, slamming me against the shelves. Bottles crashed to the ground, the sound shattering the silence.

“Enough,” he growled, his hand tightening around my throat. “You’re coming with me. You can explain yourself to him.”

I clawed at his wrist, gasping for air. My vision blurred, and for a moment, I thought this was it. This was how it ended.

But then my fingers found the edge of a broken bottle on the shelf behind me.

Without thinking, I grabbed it and swung.

The sharp glass caught his arm, and he howled in pain, releasing me. I stumbled back, coughing and clutching my neck as he clutched his bleeding arm.

“You b***h,” he hissed, his eyes blazing with fury.

I didn’t wait for him to recover. I bolted for the stairs, my heart pounding like a drum.

Behind me, I heard him scramble to his feet. “You’re dead, puttana! You hear me? Dead!”

The words echoed in my ears as I burst through the door and slammed it shut. My hands shook as I slid the lock into place, knowing it wouldn’t hold for long.

Damn Joe for not taking care of this place.

I grabbed my bag from behind the bar, my mind screaming at me to move faster. My fake ID, the cash I’d stashed, the burner phone—I couldn’t leave without them.

The door rattled behind me. He was trying to break through.

My fingers fumbled with the strap of my bag as I swung it over my shoulder and ran for the front door.

“Stop her!” he shouted from the basement.

The sound of footsteps outside froze me in my tracks. Someone was outside.

I spun around, searching for another way out.

The back door.

The basement door crashed open, and I heard his heavy boots hitting the floor.

There was no time to think. I sprinted for the back door, throwing it open and running into the alley.

The sunlight hit me like a slap, blinding and disorienting me for a few seconds. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but I didn't stop. Couldn't.

Then as I turned the corner, I collided with someone.

I stumbled back, ass landing on the grimy ground, the air knocked out of me, and looked up to see a man in a dark suit.

His expression was unreadable, but the cold barrel of the gun in his hand told me everything I needed to know.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.