Four
1255 Words
Dario's pov
She ran.
Of course she did.
That’s what prey does when they see the wolf’s teeth.
But Isla didn’t know—the chase is what I enjoy most.
I watched her on the monitor, grainy and black-and-white, frozen in fear at the edge of the alley. Her hand trembling over her mouth. Her eyes wide. Smart girl. She didn’t scream. She didn’t try to interfere.
She ran.
And she thought that was enough.
“Track her,” I said quietly, standing behind the screen in the backroom of the warehouse. “Now.”
Matteo looked up from his laptop, cold and composed as ever. “She went straight home. Took the long route.”
“She saw everything,” I murmured, cracking my neck. “Nico didn’t die for free.”
Matteo raised a brow. “You regret killing him?”
I turned to him slowly. “I regret that he gave her something to see.”
He didn't press.
He knew Nico had it coming—loyalty isn’t enough when a man talks too much. And Nico talked to the wrong ears.
Isla just happened to witness his punishment.
Wrong place, wrong time. Right obsession.
---
Later that night, I stood across the street from her apartment building, hidden in shadows like a ghost.
The lights flickered on inside.
Bedroom. Kitchen. Living room.
She moved room to room, checking corners. Closets. Under beds.
Panicking.
Good girl.
She didn’t know I’d already been inside hours ago. No locks, no cameras, no alarms. I left the burner phone on her kitchen counter like a kiss on her neck.
The footage on it?
Real.
Unedited.
Just me. Just her. And the streetlight that made her look like a lamb caught in the jaws of a wolf.
A message:
I see you. Always.
---
“She hasn’t left the building since,” Matteo reported the next morning. “Didn’t go to work. No calls. No activity on her main phone.”
“Fear makes people silent,” I said, watching the security feed he tapped into from the deli across the street. “But silence doesn’t mean surrender.”
“You think she’s planning something?”
I smirked.
“She’s thinking. That’s more dangerous than panic.”
Matteo handed me a new report. “We have a visual. She just entered the subway. Alone.”
I leaned back in my chair. “She’s looking for exits.”
“She rode the same line three times. Changed trains. Changed directions.”
“Trying to lose shadows she can’t see.”
“You want me to intercept?”
“No. Let her run in circles. Let her wear herself out. The mouse needs to think it has options.”
---
Back at HQ, the feed switched to a zoomed-in camera from the subway entrance. I watched her step off the train. Her head turned slightly. She clocked the man in the tailored suit standing by the map.
She didn't know him.
But she knew he didn’t belong.
Matteo smirked beside me. “She’s sharp.”
“Too sharp to be just a bystander,” I murmured. “She didn’t scream when Nico’s blood hit the pavement. She didn’t cry. She calculated. That’s not fear. That’s instinct.”
“You sure she’s not connected?”
“If she was, she’d be dead already.”
---
Later, when she returned to her apartment, I pulled out the burner phone and sent the message.
Don’t run, Isla. I’ll find you anyway.
I imagined her expression. The way her mouth would open slightly. Her eyes darting to the windows. Her breath catching in her throat.
She needed to know this wasn’t a mistake.
It was personal.
“You’re not planning to kill her,” Matteo said, watching me from the corner of the room.
“No.”
He raised a brow. “Then what?”
I smiled slowly. “She saw something she shouldn’t have. And now I see something I want.”
“She’s not like the others, Dario.”
“No. She’s not.”
And that’s exactly why I’ll make her mine.
---
She thinks the distance will save her.
I watch her on the screen—blurry CCTV footage as she locks her front door three times and triple-checks the window latches.
She’s playing house with fear.
But fear doesn’t knock. It breaks in.
“She hasn’t called anyone,” Matteo says, arms folded as he leans against the edge of the desk. “No police. No friends. No family. She’s locked herself in like she thinks walls mean something.”
I nod slowly, fingers steepled beneath my chin.
“Good. She’s isolating herself.”
“Still want to give her time?”
“No.” My voice is sharp. Controlled. “She’s smart. If I give her too long, she’ll get clever.”
Matteo’s brows lift. “So we move?”
I stare at the screen.
She’s sitting on her bed now, hugging her knees. Same clothes from yesterday. Her hair is loose, slightly damp. She’s trying to shower the fear off.
It won’t work.
“She’s not ready to be taken,” I say.
“Then what—”
“She needs to ask for me.”
Matteo lets out a quiet breath. “You want her afraid enough to come to you?”
I don’t answer right away.
“I want her to choose the cage,” I murmur. “Because then she won’t try to break out.”
---
The plan forms like fire behind glass.
Step one: Pressure.
I tap my finger against her father's file. A thick folder of sealed court documents, debt collections, and a long, ugly trail of dirty ties to men who owe me favors.
“You think he’ll run?” Matteo asks.
“No. He’ll fold,” I reply. “He always folds. Especially when it comes to Isla.”
“You sure she’ll go to him?”
“She will. When people get scared, they run to what’s familiar. Even if it’s poison.”
“And if he tells her the truth?”
I laugh darkly. “Her father’s truth is whatever I pay him to say.”
---
Step two: Strip the exits.
“Cut her card. Block her apps. Drain her savings. I want her desperate.”
Matteo types fast, pulling strings in systems no civilian should have access to.
“Done. She won’t even be able to call for a cab.”
“Good.”
Step three: The accident.
Not real. Just enough.
“She’ll try to leave the city by bus,” I say.
“You want us to stop it?”
“No,” I murmur. “I want it to crash. Minor. A scare. Something that keeps her stranded... just long enough for me to send help.”
“You mean... you?”
I smile.
“I mean my car. Black. Unmarked. With my name on the screen. She won’t get in right away.”
“And when she refuses?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
---
Matteo is quiet for a beat.
“She’ll hate you.”
I meet his eyes.
“She’ll fear me first. That’s what opens the door. Hate is just the lock.”
He nods slowly. “And after that?”
I lean forward, watching Isla lie down on her bed, curling in on herself.
Her eyes are open. Awake. Exhausted.
Vulnerable.
“After that,” I whisper, “I bring her home.”
- Writer
