FORTUNE FAVOURS HER

chapter 4

Seated behind the worn wooden desk of my vintage shop office, every muscle in my body tenses with each passing moment. Time seems to crawl by at a snail's pace, each minute stretching into what feels like hours. The usual hustle and bustle of the shop is noticeably absent today, and the surveillance on the premises appears to be lax. It's been four days since my harrowing ordeal with the enigmatic man who still remains nameless to me. He may not be the top boss of the operation, but his influence looms large, casting a shadow of fear over my every move.

With a sense of unease gnawing at my insides, I type out my report to my boss, detailing the supposed slowdown in shipments. It's a lie, plain and simple, crafted to save my own skin. The weight of my deceit hangs heavy on my conscience, each keystroke a painful reminder of the moral compromises I've been forced to make in the name of survival.

The mafia boss has given me a week to divert attention away from his illicit cargo, under threat of a gruesome fate that awaits me if I fail. The ultimatum hangs over me like a dark cloud, a constant reminder of the perilous tightrope I now walk.

I glance up from my computer screen to find the man from the shop floor, diligently dusting the shelves. Irritation bubbles up within me at the sight of his presence, a constant reminder of the watchful eyes that surveil my every move.

"Could you be quiet?" I snap, unable to contain my frustration any longer.

His gaze meets mine across the room, his expression unreadable as he sets down the box he was holding and makes his way over to where I sit.

"I don't appreciate your tone," he says, his voice calm but laced with a subtle undercurrent of menace. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. This man, though petite in stature, exudes a dangerous aura that leaves me feeling unsettled. He's the same man who knocked me down before, leaving me with a throbbing headache that still lingers.

"I apologize," I mutter, my fingers continuing to dance across the keyboard as I try to maintain an air of composure. But I can still feel his gaze boring into me, a constant reminder that he's here to ensure I don't betray his boss. Any misstep on my part, and he's authorized to put a bullet in my head without a second thought.

I meet his gaze head-on, my own expression a mixture of defiance and resignation. "So, are you going to stare or go back to your task?" I challenge, the words dripping with thinly veiled contempt.

He taps the table in response, a silent acknowledgment of my command, before returning to his designated chore. He had mentioned before that dusting was a way for him to expend extra energy; apparently, watching me is boring.

"I will need a copy of the report you sent to your boss," he states matter-of-factly, his tone brooking no argument. "Exactly the way it is in the email."

I scoff inwardly at his audacity, but outwardly, I maintain a facade of nonchalance. "You have my email address," I retort, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "You can access it anytime you please."

He shakes his head, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "The boss wants you to deliver it yourself," he explains, his words a stark reminder of the ever-tightening grip of his employer's control.

I suppress a curse under my breath, cursing the man before me and his arbitrary rules. With a resigned sigh, I reluctantly comply, sending the document to the printer with a click of the mouse. The mechanical whirring of the printer fills the air, a discordant symphony of impending doom as each page slides into place.

With a sense of apprehension gnawing at my insides, I retrieve the freshly printed report and make my way back to my desk, intending to seal it in an envelope. But before I can carry out this mundane task, the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence of the room, causing me to tense involuntarily. I cast a wary glance in the direction of the man who still looms nearby, a silent sentinel of my captivity. I already know what he's going to say, and the anticipation only serves to heighten my anxiety.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I answer the phone and activate the speaker, allowing the melodious voice of Oliver to fill the room.

"Hello, darling," he greets me with his charming English accent, his words wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

"Good afternoon to you," I reply, mustering up a flirty tone and a forced smile, one that I hope can't be mistaken for anything but pure joy.

"How have you been?" he inquires, his concern evident in his tone.

"Perfect," I reply automatically, the lie sticking in my throat like a bitter pill. Behind the facade of my cheerful demeanor, I am being held at gunpoint, my very existence hanging in the balance.

"Great," Oliver responds, oblivious to the turmoil raging within me. "I'm coming down there to see you."

His words hit me like a tornado, threatening to upend the delicate balance of my carefully constructed facade. Three weeks have passed since we last saw each other, but Oliver knows he can't come here. Not now, not with the danger that lurks around every corner.

"Wait," I blurt out, panic rising in my chest. "I was supposed to visit you."

"Thought you were too busy," he remarks casually, his words a painful reminder of the lie I've been forced to live.

"I wanted to surprise you," he continues, unaware of the perilous situation in which I find myself trapped.

"Oliver," I say, my voice trembling as I hear the telltale click of a gun behind me. I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender, knowing that any false move could mean the end of everything. "Right now isn't good. Can we plan for a nice trip to Florence in about two weeks?"

The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the sound of my own racing heartbeat. In that moment, I can only hope and pray that Oliver will understand, that he will sense the danger lurking beneath the surface of my carefully crafted words. For in this deadly game of deceit and betrayal, the stakes have never been higher, and the consequences of failure have never been more dire.

The silence stretches on, each passing second feeling like an eternity as I wait with bated breath for Oliver's response. My heart pounds in my chest, the weight of the situation bearing down on me like a suffocating blanket. I steal a quick glance at the man standing nearby, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Oliver speaks, his voice laced with concern. "Is everything alright, love? You sound... off."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain a semblance of composure. "Everything's fine, darling," I reply, mustering up a reassuring tone. "It's just... not a good time for a visit right now. But Florence in two weeks sounds perfect, doesn't it?"

There's a moment of hesitation on the other end of the line, during which I hold my breath, willing Oliver to accept my flimsy excuse. The seconds tick by agonizingly slow, until finally, he lets out a resigned sigh.

"Alright," he concedes, his disappointment evident even through the crackling static of the phone line. "Two weeks it is, then. But promise me you'll take care of yourself in the meantime."

"I promise," I assure him, the weight of my words heavy with unspoken meaning. "I'll be counting down the days until I can see you again."

As I'm about to end the call, a sudden thought crosses my mind. "Oh, and could you check on my grandma for me?" I ask, my voice tinged with concern.

There's a brief pause on Oliver's end as if he's mentally recording the message. "Of course," he replies finally. "Good evening, love. Remember to eat your vegetables."

"Same to you," I reply, my voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "I'll make sure to eat them." With a heavy heart, I end the call and turn my attention back to the man who stands silently nearby, his watchful gaze a constant reminder of the perilous reality in which I find myself trapped.