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For the record, I'd like to state that none of this was my fault.

It wasn't my fault that my ex, Dario, turned out to be a little shit. It wasn't my fault that he had a gambling problem, or that he borrowed money from the wrong people. It wasn't my fault that he had been evading the mob for weeks. And it certainly wasn't my concern, paying the money back.

After my usual shift at the factory, I was walking home like I did most days. Minding my own business, I had my headphones in as I listened to a podcast, I was thinking of what I was going to have for dinner. Without a boyfriend, that's what my life revolves around; food.

Then, out of nowhere, someone hits me on the back of the head. I fall over, scared and confused. I'm lifted up and shoved into the back of a shady black van.

I think, 'This is it, I'm dead'. I thought I was going to be assaulted, killed and my body dumped somewhere.

I was shocked when the van pulled up outside some derelict building and I was hauled out by two masked men. My wrists were tied behind my back and I was forced to kneel in front of another man, he wasn't wearing a mask.

I didn't recognise him at all. He had insanely black hair, the darkest I've ever seen, a handsome face and a russet-coloured tan. When he spoke, it was with a heavy Italian accent. He asked me when I'd last seen Michael Ramirez. I told him the truth; five weeks ago when he dumped my ass and stole the £20 note out of my purse.

Piece of shit.

They weren't pleased with my answer, especially considering they had been looking for my POS ex for weeks. They made me unlock my phone and they checked it. They found evidence from my texts that we hadn't spoken for weeks and that our last exchange was hardly a friendly one. I think I told him to go to Hell and I hope his dick fell off.

It came as no surprise to me that Michael owed them money. He owed everyone money, including me. We'd dated for three months and I'm not sure what I ever saw in him. Things went downhill quickly and soon, he was dumping me for some waitress he'd just met.

Apparently useless to them, I thought I was a goner. That's when the metal door was kicked in.

My head, and the heads of every gun-wielding man in the room, snap over to the direction of the door. The barrel of some kind of assault rifle is the only thing I process.

"Get down!" A shout sounds out and I don't need to be told twice.

I throw my upper body to the ground and nearly get a mouthful of concrete. My heart, already beating pretty fast, starts hammering in my chest. My wrists are still tied behind my back. I just want to get out of here and go home. I'm still in my work uniform. I'm hungry. It's a Thursday night and all I want is dinner and a Netflix series.

More men come flooding into the building. I think it says a lot that there are no women. Probably because we have better fucking things to do than run around comparing gun sizes like dicks.

Ooh, my gun is bigger than yours. Big fucking whoop.

There is a lot of shouting and gunfire. I wish I could cover my ears, they ring with the cacophony that echoes around the factory. Italian is exchanged in barks and orders. I recognise some of the curse words from my Italian friend who taught me them at school.

The second language is harder, more Eastern sounding. I hear the word nyet and recognise the other side as Russians.

Russians versus Italians. This is like a cliché mob film, but somehow, I'm lying on the ground in the middle of it all. This is crazy.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think about the mass of dead bodies littering the building. I think some of the Italians get away, but mostly, it's a massacre. The Russians are clearly winning whatever battle this is.

"Who's this woman?" A heavily accented voice sounds nearby.

I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut and pray they're not talking about me, but I'm the only woman in this building. I want them to leave me alone and go. I want to walk out of here and forget this ever happened.

Someone kicks me with their foot and I grunt. I open my eyes and look at two thug-looking men standing above me.

"The fuck are you?" One of them asks harshly.

With great difficulty, I manage to sit up on my heels. I beg without shame, "I'm no one. Let me go, please."

The two men look at each other. "Why were you here?"

"They- the Italians- thought I knew the location of someone they're after. I don't. Please, I'm just a bookkeeper. Please, let me go."

They look at each other again, clearly considering this.

"We should ask the boss," one them mutters.

"You get her name and do a background check, I'll call him over," one of them orders to the other.

He walks off and his friend pulls out his phone. I don't want to give him my name, but there's no other way out of this. I want them to search me up, find nothing because I'm boring, and then let me go.

"Name?"

"Alaska Stevens."

He pulls a face as he types my name into his phone. "What kind of name is Alaska?"

I don't know what to say to that. "You never been to Canada?"

The man snorts and shakes his head. "No."

"It's near there. My dad was from Alaska."

"Whatever," he mutters under his breath as he reads whatever has come up on his phone screen.

Footsteps draw our attention back to the door. The friend has come back and he's not alone. A man walks next to him, a man who terrifies me just from the way he walks.

He has a confident gait, an almost swagger, that shows his self-confidence. His arms are kind of out from his body, like his big biceps make it impossible for them to hang any closer to his chest. He is taller than both of the other men, somewhere around six and half foot, I'd guess.

His hair, like the others, is cut so short that he is a skinhead. He looks like he used to be in the military or something. From what I can see, he has tattoos on his neck, hands and a couple small ones on his face near his eyes. Basically, he looks tough as shit.

"Boss, she checks out. She's no one."

In any other circumstance, I might be hurt by the statement. Right now, it's like my prayers have been answered.

I really am no one, just let me leave.

The boss turns to me. His eyes are the palest blue, almost like he has contacts in for Halloween or something. He has perfectly defined cheekbones and the kind of jaw you want to run your fingers along. It's covered by some dark stubble but that only adds to his sexy/scary look. He's wearing a fitted black suit that shows off his muscular physique effortlessly.

All in all, I want to both run from him and fuck him. It's very confusing for my poor body.

He looks me up and down and everything in my body heats up. Under all that machismo and intimidation, he looks...pleased with what he sees. He gives me another appreciative once-over. His eyes linger a little too long on the ever-so-slightly exposed lace tops of my stockings under my pencil skirt.

They drag back up to my face and the faintest of smiles appears on his lips before he returns to being stoic. He gives a sharp nod and turns on his heel.

"Release her."

His order is barked over his shoulder. His accent is the thickest of them all. His voice is gravelly and hoarse, like crunching stones. It's oddly sexy.

Jesus, Alaska, you're not really checking out a Russian mob boss are you?

The two goons help me to my feet. One of them pulls out a fucking scary looking knife and uses it to cut through my ties. It looks like he could easily gut me with it instead. They push me towards the exit.

"Go. Say a word, one fucking word, about tonight and you're dead. We know where you live."

Well, isn't that reassuring. Looks like I'll be moving.

I run home and, out of fear for my life, don't tell a soul what happened.

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One week later, I'm driving home from work.

I never used to drive. My commute is either a ten minute drive or a thirty minute walk. I always chose the latter option to save money, save the planet and do my body some good. Since the whole 'kidnapping/brush with death' thing, I've been driving. I feel a lot safer in a moving vehicle with four wheels than I do on two legs.

I've had a long day and I'm craving garlic bread. I pull into a small supermarket and pop in for some cheap baguettes of heaven. After making my purchase, I get back into my car and start driving home again.

I live on the outskirts of town, right next to the countryside. The lanes are dark at night without the main road streetlights. I put my full-beams on. A car comes up behind me and starts tailgating me, getting right up my arse. Another car is behind them and they're clearly racing.

Fucking men.

I grip the wheel tightly as the first car overtakes me. The second car goes with it and I shake my head in disapproval at their reckless behaviour.

I gasp loudly as the second car rear-ends the first. The front car loses grip and careens off the road into the ditch. I slam my brakes on, stopping a couple metres from the crash.

What the fuck?

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