Chapter 2 - The Stranger
“I’ve got you.”
The voice was incredibly deep and calm, carrying the faint trace of an accent I could not immediately identify through the thick fog filling my head.
I desperately tried to speak.
I wanted to apologize, to explain that I was perfectly fine and did not need anyone's help.
But the words simply would not form on my lips.
My exhausted body had completely stopped cooperating with my brain.
Through half-closed, heavy eyes, I looked up at the stranger holding me.
He had thick dark hair, incredibly sharp facial features, and eyes so dark brown they appeared almost pitch black.
He was very tall, easily well over six feet, and broad-shouldered beneath a black dress shirt and a charcoal blazer that fit him with custom perfection.
“Miss, can you hear me?” he asked again.
His long, elegant fingers moved gently to the side of my throat to check my erratic pulse.
I managed a very weak, trembling nod.
Then his intense dark gaze dropped to my left arm.
My wet jacket sleeve had ridden up when he caught me from falling.
The ugly bruises were completely exposed.
There were four distinct oval marks, a sickly mix of yellow and dark purple, shaped exactly like a man's fingers.
His entire body went rigidly still beneath me.
Something dangerous flashed quickly across his handsome face.
It was not confusion or pity.
It was absolute recognition.
He knew exactly what those specific marks meant.
“Who did this to you?”
His deep voice remained quiet, but something volatile beneath it had completely changed.
I pulled weakly at my sleeve, trying desperately to cover the shameful evidence.
“I’m fine,” I lied quickly. “I'm just clumsy. I fell at work.”
“You fell?”
He did not believe me for a single second.
“When is the last time you actually ate something?”
“I—today. Earlier.”
“Try again,” he commanded softly.
He adjusted his strong hold, effortlessly keeping me upright as the subway train continued swaying.
“And this time, do not lie to me.”
Hot tears instantly stung my tired eyes.
I did not cry anymore.
I had meticulously trained myself out of crying months ago because shedding tears only made Ryan much angrier.
But something about this stranger’s bold directness, and the complete absence of judgment in his tone, broke through my walls anyway.
“Yesterday,” I whispered, looking away. “Maybe.”
He muttered something harsh under his breath in a language I recognized as rapid Italian.
Then he spoke to the massive man standing directly behind him.
“Marco, bring the car to the next stop immediately. We’re getting off.”
“Wait.”
I tried weakly to pull away from his grip.
“I don’t need—I can’t—I don’t even know you.”
“My name is Aleandro Raldi.”
He said it with a quiet authority, as though the name was supposed to mean something very important.
It meant absolutely nothing to an exhausted nurse from Queens.
Something resembling mild approval passed briefly through his dark expression when I didn't react to his name.
“And right now, Amanda, what you need is food, water, and somewhere safe to recover. I can provide all three.”
“How do you know my name?” I gasped.
He glanced at the hospital ID badge clipped to my jacket pocket.
“I have to go home,” I protested weakly.
Even just saying the word 'home' made my empty stomach contract with dread.
Aleandro watched my face very closely.
“Do you actually want to go home?”
The terrifying question remained suspended between us.
It was simple.
It was direct.
It was completely impossible to answer honestly without revealing the nightmare I had spent months hiding.
The train squealed as it slowed into the next station platform.
Aleandro suddenly stood up and lifted me into his arms as though I weighed absolutely nothing.
He placed one strong arm beneath my knees and the other securely supporting my back.
I should have screamed and demanded that he put me down immediately.
Instead, exhausted far beyond the point of resistance, I rested my heavy head against his broad shoulder.
“This is literally kidnapping,” I mumbled against his coat.
“This is helping,” he corrected smoothly.
He stepped confidently onto the crowded subway platform.
“There is a very distinct difference.”
The massive man named Marco appeared right beside us, looking highly alert.
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He wore a dark tailored suit and a discrete earpiece, moving with the unmistakable alertness of professional, high-end security.
Marco cleared a wide path through the bustling crowd, ensuring no one bumped into Aleandro as he carried me toward the stairs.
