CHAPTER THREE
1370 Words
CHAPTER THREE – Elira’s POV
Safehouse – 12:24 AM
She didn’t cry.
Even when the heavy steel door hissed shut behind him.
Even when she realized there were no windows she could open.
Even when she stared at the reflection of her own face in the polished black glass—and almost didn’t recognize it.
Crying felt pointless. Like a luxury she couldn’t afford.
So she sat in the chair he pointed at, her soaked hoodie clinging to her spine like a second skin, her jaw clenched so tight it ached.
She was tired. Wet. Cold.
And furious.
“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered into the silence.
The room didn’t answer her.
Of course it didn’t.
It was probably bugged. Maybe even watched. That mirrored wall? Not a design choice. Surveillance.
She stood, ignoring how her legs trembled, and paced the room. It wasn’t big—barely the size of her dorm double. The bed was low, sharp-edged, wrapped in slate gray sheets that looked military-issued. The only splash of color was a small red LED in the corner.
Recording. Watching.
She pulled her soaked hoodie off and tossed it at the light.
Missed. Damn.
---
The bathroom was spotless. Too clean. Sanitized. She checked the cabinets—no toothbrush, no towels, nothing sharp. Not even a bar of soap. Just a tiny bottle of liquid body wash, sealed.
She twisted the knob on the shower. Hot water came instantly.
Her first instinct was to strip down and crawl under it until her skin burned, until the memory of that voice—his voice—was rinsed from her brain.
But she didn’t move.
He was probably watching. He’d made that clear without saying it.
“You don’t leave my sight.”
Fucking psycho.
---
Elira sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the blank wall. She was trying to piece it together, to stay rational.
Mila Cruz.
Traitor. Flash drive.
Wrong girl.
Same last name.
She didn’t know a Mila. None in her family. Her mom was a housewife. Her dad was a math teacher. She had two brothers who couldn’t care less about organized crime.
There was no way this was her problem.
So why did she have that sick feeling in her gut like maybe... it was?
What if she’s adopted and no one told her?
What if her parents lied?
"Unless I don’t know who my family really is," she whispered to the room.
“You look just like her.”
What the hell did that mean?
---
12:52 AM
The door hissed open again.
She jumped to her feet like a deer caught mid-flight, hands curling into fists before she could stop herself.
It wasn’t him.
This man was younger. Broad shoulders. No emotion in his face. A guard, probably. He didn’t speak. Just stepped in, placed a tray on the table, and walked out. The door sealed behind him again without a word.
She approached the tray like it might explode.
Two bottles of water. Rice, eggs, corned beef. Still hot.
Poisoned?
Probably not. If they wanted her dead, she wouldn’t be fed.
But she still waited fifteen minutes before touching it. Hunger won.
---
1:18 AM
She finally showered.
Quick. Cold. Efficient.
Not because the water was cold, but because her spine wouldn’t unclench long enough to enjoy the heat. She left the tank top and shorts folded on the bed untouched. They’d been placed while she showered—someone came in. While she was naked.
Her stomach turned at the thought.
Still, she put them on. They were soft. Clean. Too expensive to be comforting.
She curled under the covers but didn’t sleep.
Her mind wouldn’t shut off.
---
2:49 AM
Elira sat up in bed, knuckles white against the mattress. Her breathing was shallow. Controlled.
There was something wrong with the timeline.
She kept replaying it in her head—the café, the flash drive, Karla’s stupid laugh as she flirted with some guy near the benches.
“I’m gonna be quick,” Karla had said.
“Study group in 10. Wait here.”
She hadn’t paid attention. Had her earphones in. Was editing her paper. Just wanted to go home.
But now... now she wondered.
Had Karla handed something off? To a man?
If she had—if Karla was involved in something—then Elira was being punished for someone else’s sin.
Or used.
Or framed.
And that thought terrified her more than anything else.
---
3:17 AM
The door hissed open again.
She was already on her feet.
Luca Moretti entered with the same quiet arrogance, hands in his coat pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, like he owned the night.
Because, apparently, he did.
His eyes swept the room. The tray, now empty. The clean bed. The fact that she hadn’t touched the books on the table.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice flat.
She didn’t answer.
His eyes narrowed slightly—not anger, just observation.
“Smart girl. You stayed awake.”
“Didn’t want to miss your next hostage monologue.”
That earned a twitch in the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Just a shift.
“No one’s coming for you, Elira.”
She hated how her name sounded in his mouth. Like it belonged to him.
“I didn’t expect anyone to,” she snapped.
He stepped closer.
She didn’t flinch.
Not when he stepped closer. Not when he looked her over like inventory.
And maybe that’s what bothered him
“Good,” he said. “Because now we can talk.”
"Talk?” she scoffed. “You mean interrogate me again?”
“This time you’ll listen better.”
His tone wasn’t threatening. That’s what made it worse.
“You think I’m connected to some woman named Mila,” she said. She crossed her arms, lifting her chin. “Maybe the problem isn’t me—it’s your shitty intel.”
He didn’t respond.
Just reached into his coat—and tossed a small silver USB onto the bed.
“We recovered this from the courier. You’re not on it. But Karla is.”
Elira’s stomach dropped.
“She gave it to someone,” he said. “Encrypted files. Logistics. Shipping schedules.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know.”
She blinked.
“You... believe me?”
“I believe you didn’t mean to do anything,” he said. “But intention doesn’t erase consequence.”
“I’m not a criminal—”
“You’re not on it,” he agreed.
“You’re bait.”
The blood drained from her face. Not from fear, but something colder—humiliation.
“Excuse me?”
Luca circled her now, slow and clinical.
“Mila’s still out there. She’s smart. Slippery. But she had a soft spot—her family. We dug up everything. And you... kept showing up.”
“I’m not her f*****g family—!”
“Then you’re useful for a different reason.”
He stopped behind her.
“Because Mila might come back for you.”
“So that’s it?” she whispered. “I’m leverage?”
“Until I find out who you really are.”
Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. She sat back on the bed and looked up at him.
“And if you’re wrong?”
"I don’t make mistakes.”
He said it again. Just like before. But this time, she saw something under it. Not certainty. Not pride.
Fear.
Of being wrong.
Of being played.
Of being betrayed again.
---
4:03 AM
He left without another word.
And Elira sat in the dark, alone with the knowledge that she wasn’t just trapped
—
She was a pawn in a game she didn’t even understand.
But if she was going to survive it, she’d have to stop being scared.
She’d have to play back.
And maybe—just maybe—turn the game on him.
“You don’t leave my sight,” he said.
Fine.
He thought she was a pawn. Good. Pawns got ignored—right until they crossed the board and became queens.
Then he’d never see her coming.
- Writer
