Chapter 3. I Am a Nobody

Georgia’s POV

Silence.

Gnawing silence.

Razor-cutting silence.

I awakened minutes ago, and since then, I haven’t heard a thing, and that scares me.

Despite being unable to see anything, I know someone apart from the rats running around is there.

My ears are sharp, searching for any sound. My nose is quick to pick up the scent of where I am. It smells like something died in here, and more so, it’s cold.

I can feel goosebumps all over my skin from both the cold and fright. One minute I am at my wedding, and the next, I am using the priest’s body as my shield. And then I am being muffled by a guy into a black vehicle.

I am scared. The kind of scared which has you wanting to piss your pants. What sort of freakshow is happening here?

My thoughts travel back to the church. How everyone ran for their lives like little mice, how horror-stricken I was to have blood on my hands.

I just saw a man die in front of me. A man of God, in fact.

I am trying to forget everything, but neither the environment nor my state of mind permits it.

My legs and wrists are tied to the chair, my mouth is tied up by a rag, and I feel sick to my stomach thinking about where it might have been or what it might have touched.

“Stay here.”

I remember him saying, but then he left me, knowing well how traumatized I was. And I did the only thing I knew at the moment.

I ran. He told me not to run, but I had to. For my life, I had to run, and now, here I am. Trapped and gagged.

“You have her?”

A voice richly laced in Italian roars, and I wiggle in my seat.

“Si, signore,” another gruff voice comes from the farthest end of the room, and a chill runs down my spine.

I hear footsteps, and pretty soon, I can feel someone tower over me. I can smell his cologne so close to me, and at the moment, all I can do is swallow saliva with much difficulty.

Since when did anyone kidnap Georgia Marie Moretti? I am a nobody. I am no one of interest, well, until today.

I am Georgia Marie La Monda from now on, and even thinking about it is heartbreaking.

Unless, does this have to do with him? Does this have to do with Ennio?

I feel cold hands graze my cheek, and I flinch, trying to loll my head back.

I scream, or at least I am trying to, but the gag makes it hard.

“Shh, amore. It’s only me,” he speaks.

Who ‘me’? I try to recall his voice, but no one’s come to mind.

I feel his other hand on my thigh, and panic and terror course through my body. What is he doing? What is he trying to do?

He is not gonna- He can’t. I move my legs, trying to shake off his hand on my thigh, but it does nothing.

The brute caresses my leg, and like a helpless woman, a tear falls down my cheek, and I nod my head sideways, trying to say, ‘No, don’t do this.’

His hands leave my leg and my cheek, and I feel them at the back of my head, undoing the knot.

When the cloth that covers my eyes is removed, the light stings, and I am blinded at first. Quickly I start looking at everyone and everything in the room.

I was right in my own freaked-out way. Something did die in here because just far off, there’s a steel table with dried blood on it.

I try not to jump to conclusions. It could be animal blood, right? It doesn’t necessarily mean it’s human blood, right?

There are two guys standing by the doorway of the small room I am in. The water drips from the ceiling, making a doink sound.

Judging from the large metallic tanks around us, we are in some kind of boiler room, and I doubt anyone we’ll find me here.

My eyes find the strength to gaze at the man kneeling in front of me. He is dressed in a black leather jacket, and I can see a white shirt beneath it.

I find his eyes. They are emerald with a hint of blue. He has a straight nose, brown gelled hair, and a shadow on his chin, most probably from shaving his beard.

He is handsome, no doubt, but he cannot compare to Ennio La Monda. Did I just compare him to Ennio?

His fingers lightly take the gag off my mouth.

“I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything about him. There’s no need to torture me. I am useless to you!” I say the first thing when I manage to talk.

“No one is going to torture you, amore,” he says, grazing his hand yet again on my cheek, and I cringe.

Who is this man?

“T-then, what are you going to do with me? Let me go. Please,” I plead, this time feeling tears sting my eyes.

“You are not a prisoner, Georgia,” he clarifies, and I almost laugh in irony.

“You have me tied to a chair in a prison-like hell hole with two guys barricading the door. I fail to see how I am not a prisoner,” I yell.

“Trust me, Georgia. You are not a prisoner. It’s the other way around, really. I am your prisoner because I can’t go on a fucking day without thinking about you. You are mine, Georgia. Mine,” his eyes turn horrid gripping the edge of the seat with sheer anger.

“I am married.”

Amidst everything he has said, that’s the only thing I can say. I am supposed to ask how he knows my name, I am supposed to ask who he is, but saying I am married is the one thing that will end this madness.

“No!” he growls, standing up. “You are not his wife. You are mine!”

I hiss every time he says I am his. I am no one’s property. I am not just some dog that anyone can claim.

“Let me go. Whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong woman. I am… am a married woman,” I try to reason.

He stands up, paces across the room, and turns to me with murderous eyes. I shut my mouth as he walks toward me.

Before I can say anything else, his right hand slaps my cheek, and the last words I hear are ‘You are mine’ before I black out.

***

I have been through worse before, but when I wake up, I feel like I am already dead.

My head pounds incessantly, and my left cheek hurts.

Gone was the dingy chair I sat in earlier. My hands are free, and I flutter my eyes open, staring at the pale white ceiling.

“Thank God. You are finally awake,” someone says, and I turn my head slightly to find a woman probably two years older than me towering over me.

I try to sit up, gripping the mattress for support as I rest my back on the headboard.

“W… what happened?” I ask, touching my head.

“Giovanni, he has a bit of a temper,” she simply says, and I suddenly remember everything.

This Giovanni guy. He hit me. Hard.

“He hit me,” I groan unbelievably.

“He is not a bad man. He just needs saving, which is why you are going to help me save him,” she says, sitting by my bedside, her placid eyes on me.

Is she crazy? How crazy is everyone here?

I am now in a cozy room, simple with no windows whatsoever.

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything. I don’t know him…I don’t know what this is about.”

“And you don’t have to understand anything. You simply must come with me. Now! We must avoid the blood bath that’s sure to happen if Ennio arrives.”

My ears perk up at the sound of Ennio’s name being mentioned.

“Ennio? He’s coming? For me?” I ask nervously.

“You are his wife, are you not?”

I find it hard to answer that question.

Am I really Mrs. La Monda now? Saying that leaves an even bitter taste in my mouth.