Ren • Thursday 8:46 pm 

As Gio and Lucas walk on, I pause in front of the Prada window, ogling the new fall season bags, when the words 'Scusi, bella,' catch my ear. 

I turn my head on instinct, half expecting to have to move out of someone's way (though Bella is my husband's pet name for me, every man calls me bella in Italy), but that is not the case. 

Standing before me is an extremely handsome man who has patiently waited for me to turn around. He has perfectly styled ebony hair, his chiseled jaw sports an ideal five-o'clock shadow, and he's dressed to kill —you know, your typical Italian dream boat.        

Oh. My. Lord! It's like he's straight out of an Armani catalog.

My eyes travel down his crisp white button-down shirt, open at the neck, to a gold necklace strung with a small antique pendant glittering in the dimming evening from the store's display lights. I saw something similar today in the cathedral: an image of St Gabriel, the Archangel, holding the cross. Next to it is another one of the Ace of Spades. Interesting.  

My eyes flick back up to his face as my brows knit together. Why is he approaching me? Where's Gio? I briefly scan the crowd and see Lucas looking back at me over his shoulder, Gio just in front of him. Phew. I bring my attention back to the stranger. He then lowers his aviators, revealing arresting, light, crystal blue eyes. 

"Mi scusi," Mr Armani repeats, then adds in a thick accent, "You speak Inglese?"

"English? Y-yes," I stammer, his beautiful, piercing eyes somehow evaporating all coherent thoughts. Oh my! It's like he's tasered me with his eyes. He's absolutely stunning, and I'm struggling against its effects. A brilliant smile then spreads slowly across his face—it's easy and charming and instantly relaxes me. 

"Bene. A small, um, regazzo, eh..." he hesitates, searching for the word in English, making a gesture of the height of a child around three."

"A small boy?" I assist him, tilting my head in question.

"Si! Yes." He nods. "He is lost. I try to talk, but I not understand. He is afraid of me. Will you come?"

"Oh, of course," I say, my heart instantly aching for the frightened boy. The mama bear inside me always comes out whenever a child is in trouble.

Taking my hand, the elegant man puts my arm through his and leads us back toward the Cathedral. 

"This way. Not too far," he says with a warm, reassuring smile, gliding fast and steering me effortlessly through the crowd. Picking up my pace to match his, I'm almost halfway down the busy street when it suddenly occurs to me that I should tell my husband what I'm doing. Pulling out my phone, I prepare to text Gio to tell him what's going on. I open our last text exchange, and I begin to type as I walk.

Me: Hey, babe. Wait up. I've just gone—

I pause my typing as the man abruptly turns us down a short side street that smells of brine and mildew, and I look up from my phone to see exactly where we are. It's a thin side street with just two shuttered shops; one bare bulb flickers on from a residential entry, lighting up the otherwise darkening alley in the twilight. As we enter the street, we walk past a wealthy-looking older gentleman in a black suit leaning against a wall. He's looking down at his phone and smoking a cigarette, but other than him, the street is vacant. It's eerily quiet compared to the bustle of the main shopping street just behind us, except for the sound of an engine running. 

Mr Armani stops beside an old shop with traditional Venetian masks in the window.  "He's just through here. He wouldn't come with me. I think I just scare him more."

He points to a low entryway with a small, pretty courtyard beyond, strung with the inviting glow of outdoor string lights. Venice has so many strange pockets! Through a stone arch in the opposite wall, I can see the gorgeous silty green water of a canal with an expensive motorboat pulled up to it with its motor running. Ah! That's the engine sound.

Tentatively, I walk forward through the low-ceilinged entry and look back down at my phone to quickly type out the rest of my message to Gio. Mr Armani follows close behind me; the clicking of my heels on the stones matches my heartbeats, and my sense of safety is rapidly evaporating. I scan the small dilapidated stone courtyard for a boy, but it's entirely empty. Crap. All the hairs on my neck stand straight up.

Oh shit, Ren, you are so stupid.

I halt, debating whether to abandon the text and call Gio right now or turn and run when, quicker than lightning, one muscled arm whips tightly around my shoulders, pinning my arms down, and my phone flies from my hand to the ground with a clatter. What the fuck is going on! In shock, I whip my eyes around to see a syringe in his other hand glint from the lights above, and it's headed right for me. 

I scream, and my self-defense training kicks in. Swiftly, I lean forward, dodging the syringe, and then whip my head back, head-butting the man right in the nose. He yells out in pain and drops the syringe to the ground. I kick it further away and try to break free, but he quickly secures me tighter with both arms. Fuck. I was hoping he'd grab his face and let me go, but I've got to keep going. 

Gio insisted I take a self-defense course after I was almost assaulted on the way home from a nightclub when I was twenty-nine. But that was more than fifteen years ago. Shit. I only hope I can still remember everything they taught me. Without wasting a moment more, I bring my foot up and slam the stiletto heel of my Dolce & Gabbana shoe down hard on his toes.

"Minchia!" he hisses, effectively calling me the 'c' word.

My heart pounds with adrenaline as I knock him off balance, and I keep going with my attack. Moving my hips to the side, I back up, driving them backward past his, allowing space to bring my elbow down sharply toward his groin. Seeing my elbow careening swiftly towards his nuts, he lets me go and deftly moves away to save his balls. Literally.

Seizing my opportunity to escape, I bolt toward the archway. Unfortunately, this man is not in high heels like I am. Damn it! I probably should have kicked them off when I had the chance! He easily outruns me and snatches my bag, ripping it off my shoulder and knocking me off balance. Grabbing me again around the arms, I scream, but he quickly covers his hand over my mouth, pulling me back rapidly towards the waiting boat.

My heart is beating like thunder in my ears. I can't let him take me away. I have to get out of this! I dig my heels into the cobblestones, slowing us down as I struggle to break free. I struggle against his hand to scream again, but it's no use. It's muffled and muted. He bends his knees to lift me up and carry me! 

Fuck! 

No!

Wait! 

Yes!

That's it! 

A move from class comes rushing back to me. Quickly, I arch my back and bend my leg at the knee sharply. He lifts me and my bent foot (and most importantly) my pointy upturned heel straight into his vulnerable crotch. I knew I needed these on!

"Cazzo!" He roars in agony, immediately dropping me. 

The beautiful man falls to his knees in searing pain, and I grab my purse off the ground.

Bullseye!

Faster than Usain Bolt in expensive heels, I sprint towards the exit and make it out onto the side alley. I zip right past the wealthy gentleman who's now holding someone in a dark doorway, collapsed against his chest. 

The sight of it is very concerning, and some part of me begs to stop and help, but I can't. I can't stop till I've reached my family. As I break onto the main street, I push past the throngs of tourists, desperate to get back to the Gucci Store and safety of my husband's arms.

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