Layla
The low hum of the engine filled the empty spaces of the vast luxury car. I’d taken the middle seat, and Eli nestled in beside me. Our hands folded into our laps, bound in zip ties tight enough to cut skin.
Though he pressed against my side, Eli didn’t cry, didn’t whimper, didn’t tremble. He was as silent and stoic as I imagine his father might have been—and for some reason, the thought both unsettled and reassured me.
In the front seat, Marco drove with one hand on the wheel, silent. His gun sat in the cupholder beside him, too far for me to grab.
He knew what he was doing, I’d give him that much. I was starting to suspect this wasn’t his first kidnapping.
And yet, I couldn’t stop the words of disbelief from spilling. “I thought we were friends, Marco. I trusted you.”
I shou
