Page 50 of His Kidnapped Irish Mafia Virgin

Something was wrong. I could feel it before I understood it, but I’d come too far to turn back now. I tightened my grip on my bag, swallowed the fear, and forced myself to keep walking toward the house I’d spent years trying to escape.

I stopped at the edge of the driveway and stared at the house. It looked smaller than I remembered, as though the years had pressed down on it until it could barely hold itself upright. The paint along the porch rails had peeled away in long strips, exposing the wood beneath, and weeds had grown through the cracks in the path leading to the front door.

But it wasn’t the neglect that made my pulse quicken, it was the stillness. There were no lights or movements behind the curtains. No sound came from inside the house, and the silence felt wrong.

I tightened my grip on my bag and forced myself to walk up the path. Each step felt louder than it should have, the gravel crunching beneath my boots in the empty quiet of the neighborhood. By the time I reached the porch, my heart was beating so hard that I could hear it in my ears.

“Mom?” I called softly. No answer came. I swallowed and stepped closer to the door. The brass handle was cold beneath my fingers, and for a moment I hesitated, staring at it as if it might tell me whether I should go inside…and then I turned it.

The door opened immediately, and a sharp wave of anxiety rushed through me.

My mother never left the door unlocked. I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. The air smelled stale, thick with dust and something sour I couldn’t identify. The hallway was dim, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the curtains. At first glance, the house looked ordinary enough, but the longer I stood there, the more the disorder revealed itself.

A chair had been knocked sideways near the dining table. A stack of newspapers lay scattered across the floor. One of the kitchen cupboards hung open, its contents half-spilled onto the counter. It wasn’t the neat home my mother had always tried to keep, even during the worst years. This was something else.

“Mom?” I called again, louder this time.

My voice echoed through the house and disappeared into the silence.

I moved cautiously down the hallway, my eyes scanning every doorway as though Victor might step out of the shadows at any moment. The fear I’d carried all the way from Boston tightened around my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I reached the living room and stopped.

“Mom!” I shouted.

Still nothing, The silence answered me again, and this time it felt less like an absence and more like a warning. I took another step deeper into the house, my hands trembling at my sides.

I moved deeper into the house, forcing my legs to carry me forward even as every instinct screamed at me to turn around and run. The kitchen was empty. A plate lay shattered below the sink, its pieces scattered across the floor like broken teeth.

“Mom?” My voice sounded small inside the house, swallowed by the heavy stillness.

I stepped over the broken glass and moved toward the back hallway. The smell in the air grew stronger there, sharp and metallic beneath the dust, and dread settled deeper into my chest with every step.

I reached the doorway and saw my mother lying on the floor. For a second, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing. She looked so still, so impossibly still, that the world around me seemed to tilt. Then panic crashed through me.

“Mom!” I rushed to her side and fell to my knees beside her. Her skin was cold beneath my trembling hands. I shook her gently at first, brushing the hair away from her face. “Mom, wake up! Please wake up.”

She didn’t move. My fear sharpened into desperation. I shook her harder, my voice rising with every word.

Tears blurred my vision as I pressed my fingers against her neck, searching frantically for a pulse. When I felt the faint rhythm beneath her skin, weak but steady, a sob escaped my throat.

I looked around wildly, like someone might suddenly appear and tell me what had happened, how long she’d been lying there, and whether Victor was nearby.

I couldn’t leave her here. The thought came with absolute certainty. I slipped my arms beneath her shoulders and tried to lift her, but her body felt impossibly heavy. My muscles screamed with the effort as I managed to pull her upright just enough to drag her across the floor.

“Hold on,” I whispered through my tears. “Please, Mom, just hold on.”

I dragged her inch by inch toward the front door, my breath coming in ragged gasps and my arms burning with exhaustion. Every movement felt too slow, every second too long.

But I couldn’t stop. I had to get her out of this house before Victor came back. The front door was only a few feet away now. If I could get her outside, if I could get her to a neighbor or a phone or anyone who could help, then we had a chance.

I tightened my grip beneath her shoulders and pulled again.

Then door creaked open, and everything stopped. Victor Hale stood in the doorway, filling the frame like a shadow I’d spent years trying to outrun.

The sight of him sent a violent shock through my body. The gun in his hands made my muscles lock. Every memory I’d buried came crashing back at once. I felt his cold voice echoing through these walls, the heavy footsteps that used to make me hide in my room, the bruises my mother tried to cover with long sleeves, and the fear that had ruled every day of my childhood.

He looked exactly the same. Older, perhaps, with deeper lines carved into his face, but unchanged in the ways that mattered. His eyes were hard and possessive, fixed on me with the same terrible certainty I remembered from years ago.

“Nora,” he said softly. My name sounded wrong in his mouth. I instinctively pulled my mother closer, trying to shield her with my own body. My heart hammered so violently that I thought it might tear through my chest.