Saint Valentine

19

"You're late," Francisco meets us outside the gate, a group of unknown men surrounding him. The building is smaller than I expected — only one storey. It's still on the grounds of the compound, but in the far back corner, entirely secluded and fenced off by a brick wall. We had to drive at least a few miles to get here.

"Sorry about that," I apologise on our behalf, knowing Valentino won't.

"Let's proceed," Valentino instructs. One of the men opens the gate, the rest of them following him in. Valentino grabs my hand, holding it tightly as we walk towards the building. I look up at him confused. We rarely hold hands. He usually has his arm around my waist. His eyes meet mine, but something's wrong. There's not an ounce of happiness in them, only concern. They're filled with worry.

"Hey," I squeeze his hand. "It'll be okay. We're going to be fine."

"Bianca..." he groans.

"I love you, okay? I love you."

"I love you too," he says, but his concern doesn't fade. I stay close to his side as we step into the building. It looks just how you'd expect the inside of a prison to be — grey vinyl floors, bright white walls, and heavy, metal security doors. It's small, though. It's as if a medical practice was converted into a prison. We gather in the waiting room, where a row of chairs is placed against the wall. There's security in every corner, each with a firearm strapped to their belt.

"She's in the interview room," one of the men states. Valentino nods. He turns to me.

"Francisco will take you to watch, okay?" he says. "You'll be able to see and hear everything. Is that okay?"

"Uhm-hmm," I agree.

"Are you sure? It won't be pleasant. You'll hear things you won't want to."

"That's okay. I want to hear."

"Bianca..." he hesitates.

"I want to," I insist. He takes a moment to respond but then gives in.

"Alright," he sighs. "Francisco, take Bianca."

I give Valentino a reassuring smile. He presses a final kiss on my forehead before removing his hand from mine. He keeps his eyes on me as I follow Francisco into a room at the end of the hall. It's small and dark. The only light comes in from a window, but the view isn't of outside. It's a two-way mirror, like those in police interrogations in TV shows.

There's one person in the interrogation room — a skinny blonde in a grey sweatshirt. Isabella. She looks nothing like I expected. Not one part of her looks evil, not even her eyes. She looks... arrogant. I suppose she has every right to be. She's stunning. Her skin is porcelain, and her hair is as white as snow. It's thin, with wispy bangs over her forehead. She's not wearing any makeup, and yet she still looks flawless.

My heart skips when Valentino enters the room. He glances at the glass panel for a split second, then makes his way to the table. His back is to us, but I don't need to see his face to read him. He sits down on the chair, his legs spread out and his arms loosely crossed over his chest. A tense silence hangs in the air while neither of them speaks.

"You're looking awfully distressed, Valentino," Isabella smirks. "I wonder what's bothering you."

"Don't waste my time, Isabella. Are you finally prepared to negotiate, or has your tantrum not passed yet?"

"Negotiate?" Isabella scoffs. "You caught me. You've got me locked up in a cell. Isn't that enough of a victory for you?"

"There is no victory here — not with you as content as you are. You would not have allowed yourself to be captured so easily."