Kidnapped By The Devil

Chapter 3. In The Devil's Clutches.

“Sometimes freedom is finding comfort even in times of captivity.” —Kay Mi Nee.

Vincent's POV

I saw myself standing in the middle of the clubhouse I had been in more than a million times.

The club looked just as I remembered—red, green, and blue lights scattered like tiny dots everywhere.

The air in it was thick with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, as usual. There was also that loud, familiar disco music which drove the crowd wild.

Then I saw her. The same white gown flowed down her slender form. Her hair was as perfect as her skin, making her even more perfect.

She had her back facing me as she stood motionless, far away from me, like she was not part of the world around her.

“Margaret!” I called her name as I began struggling through the crowd in an attempt to reach her, but something weird happened.

The more I ran towards her, the further away she was from me.

Everything around me sounded distant, like they were just noises in the wind that blew inside my head.

Suddenly, a pale, skeletal hand emerged from the shadows, gripping a gun aimed directly at her.

I screamed her name again, but my voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away.

There was a loud bang, and all of a sudden, everything became still. The music stopped. The people disappeared—except Margaret, who dropped lifeless to the floor.

“Nooooo!!!” I screamed myself back to reality, back to the real world. Back to my room.

My entire body was covered in sweat as I woke up on my bed. It had all been a dream. A recurring nightmare haunted me every time.

“f**k!” I swore between gritted teeth.

Immediately, there came a knock on the door, followed by a masculine Mexican-English accent.

“Boss, I got news.”

“Speak,” I ordered.

“We got her.”

I gave no response in return, which was enough to let him know his message had been delivered.

As I listened to his footsteps fading into the hallway, my mind went back to the dream I had.

If I could not save her, then I was going to kill everyone who took her away from me. Every one of them.

****************

Anthonia’s POV

“Wake up, Anthonia!” a voice that sounded like Raymond's barked at me.

I suddenly jolted back to consciousness in a dark and empty room, with only one broken window through which the moon's reflection penetrated.

I sat strapped to a cold metal chair, placed deliberately at the center of the room, right where the moonlight spilled through the broken window.

I tried moving, but my arms were tied to the back of the chair. Another leather belt strapped my waist to the chair, same with my legs.

“How did I get here?” I thought, but my head was banging so hard I feared it would explode.

That was when my ears suddenly caught the rhythmic sound of footsteps from a distance.

“Help me! Somebody help me!” I immediately screamed, only to be reminded of the sharp pains in my ribs. To make it worse, my mouth was covered with duct tape.

The footsteps grew louder until I could feel a presence watching me from amidst the darkness that surrounded me.

“Who is there? Please help me. Somebody. Please.” I muffled through the tape.

“Shhhhh . . . ! You're gonna awaken the demons,” a voice came from the darkness.

It was as cold as ice itself.

I remained frozen as a towering figure emerged from the depths of darkness into the light. I nearly swallowed my tongue.

He was purely mesomorphic. His face—a strong square jawline with a dark spot on his right cheekbone. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.

His hair was dark—almost as dark as the darkness itself. And the rest of his body was covered in a well-tailored black suit which hugged his perfectly built body.

I winced as he walked up to me and lowered his tall figure until his face hovered inches away from me. Then he peeled off the duct tape—his stormy grey eyes fixed on mine—and leaned away ever so gently.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” My voice came out like a whisper. I was being careful not to piss this guy off.

He remained silent. Expressionless. Which, oddly, made him even scarier. He had his eyes buried deep into my eyes, into my soul, into the fears within me.

Then, after what felt like a millennium, his voice came again, calm yet deadly;

“I am going to ask you just once, and you're going to tell me what I want to hear.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about? Please, let me go, I beg you.” I pleaded as my tears trickled down my cheeks.

But he stared at me for a few seconds, face emotionless, and then snapped his fingers, and the lights came up.

We were in a room that looked more like a slaughterhouse. There was fresh blood all over the cement floor and even splattered on the walls.

A table was also placed on my left side. On it lay an array of guns, knives, saws, and tools—each one perfectly aligned, each one stained with fresh blood.

I watched in horror as he carefully picked up a pistol. “I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't tell me where she is... then I will hurt you.”

“Who is ‘she’? Who are you? Please. I don't know what you're tal. . .”

“Where is Lady Tera Gram? Where is your b***h of a boss who killed Margaret?” His voice was now pitched with rage.

I trembled with fear, “I don't know. I swear, I don't even know what you're talking about. I'm innocent. Please, let me go.” By now, the tears had already flooded my eyes.

He stared at me for a while, silent. His expression was dead as always, as he looked lost in his unknown thoughts.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “What is your name?”

But before I could answer, four men walked into the room. Three were dressed in black suits, while the other one wore a white lab coat and had a microscopic lens in one eye.

The three men clutched heavy rifles, their eyes wide with fear if they had just seen the devil in the face. But the one with the lens stood behind in a calm posture.

One of them—which I immediately recognized as the man who had kidnapped me—walked up to him and whispered something in his ear.

He snapped. “So you're telling me that you kidnapped the wrong person and brought her into my mansion?” he asked the man who whispered to him.

“No . . . Uhh, I mean—yes. We can . . . ”

Before he could find the right words, the sound of a gun interrupted, and a bullet went through his head—alongside the others—except for the one with the lens.

I watched in horror as they all dropped lifelessly, except one, the one with the lens. He stood motionless—hands in his pocket—and then shrugged.

“You didn't hesitate to kill them, Vincent,” he said, referring to the man who shot them.

“Consequences, Alex. Consequences.” Vincent—or so he was called—replied coldly.

Alex walked over the pile of dead bodies—his hands still in his pockets- “Well, you'd also like to know that one of your debtors is in plain sight.”

There was a flicker of something in Vincent's eyes, but it was gone the very second it came. “ Then arrange the rest of the men. Let's go visit my old friend.”

“What about the lady? What should we do with her?”

Vincent paused and turned to me, his cold, grey eyes sending another shiver down my spine. “She's yours,” and then walked away, leaving the two of us and a pile of dead bodies.

Alex strolled to where I was bound. He had a lean build and a narrow, slim face, lacking the hard edge of a gangster. He looked slightly older than Vincent.

“Hi, I'm Alexander. What is your name?” he asked kindly.

“An…Anthonia. My name is Anthonia.”