We went through the humdrum of customs.

Passports stamped, and luggage collected, we were on our way.

I wasn’t going to admit this to Angelo, but I hadn’t recovered fully from my surgery or being thrown about while at the river. My body was sore and despite the joy I felt being with Angelo, my heart felt heavy.

I couldn’t explain it, but I felt different.

The winds of change were already upon me and my mind was troubled, crowded and jumbled.

I felt like I was standing on a precipice. In front of me was a huge drop. The answers lay at the bottom the drop, I could tell that much, but I was reluctant to take the plunge.

Don’t step too close to the edge, or you’ll fall, my inner voice kept telling me. Keep fighting. But what was I fighting for?

I didn’t know why I felt this way, but I kept my fears to myself. It would come to me, but something told me not to try and force it.

Half an hour later, we were sitting in the back of a taxi, on our way to the majestic Lydmar Hotel.

It was situated on the waterfront and close to the National Museum and offered glorious views of The Old Town and The Royal Palace, three places that were on my bucket list.

The taxi stopped at traffic lights.

I looked about and caught as many sights as I could. The architecture was a sight to behold. Totally stunning.

Stockholm was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen, and I knew I’d move here in a heartbeat.

Angelo put his arm around me, pulling me close.

I snuggled into him.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“Blissfully,” I replied. He brushed his hand lightly across my cheek.

I closed my eyes, wanting to surrender to sleep, but my eyes darted open as the car door on Angelo’s side was wrenched open.

What was happening?

“Angelo,” I screamed, as he swivelled around, taking a defensive posture.

“You belong to us,” the man yelled, trying to pull Angelo out of the vehicle.

I screamed again and lunged forward, wanting to protect Angelo. I punched at the man’s face. My blows had no effect whatsoever, so I raked my nails down his cheek then gouged at his eyes.

This too had no effect, but I screamed–touching his skin burnt my fingers.

Angelo had maneuvered himself and kicked at the man, the force sending him sprawling backwards and rolling across the busy road.

I was concerned he would be hit by oncoming traffic and looked back but couldn’t see him. I prayed he wasn’t under the wheels of a car.

“Drive,” Angelo cried out.

I rubbed at my red and tingling fingers.

The driver put his foot down, tyres screeching on tarmac.

The car ran through two sets of red lights.

I screamed, terrified we were going to crash.

Cars swerved out of our way, tooting their horns, but we kept going regardless.

I looked out of the back window, still terrified and startled to see the man once again. This time he was trying to catch our car on foot.

He was gaining fast.

How was that even possible?

“Angelo,” I screamed. “He’s coming.”

“Driver,” he yelled. “As fast as you can.”

“I’m going as fast I can, Sir.”

The car must have been doing eighty miles per hour, yet the man had no problem keeping up with us.

It was then I realised he looked familiar but the where and when eluded my befuddled mind.

Was I having a relapse, or through my exhaustion, hallucinating?

I didn’t know, but I felt reality slipping from my grasp.

My eyes closed, and I felt myself drifting away, but was brought back by the sound of footsteps on the roof of the car.

“It’s not possible,” I said.

“Stay down in your seat, Ella,” Angelo ordered, as he wound the window down and made to climb out of the window.

“Angelo,” I screamed. “No, you’ll get hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, climbing out of the window like a real-life James Bond. “Stay down,” he shouted, and then he was gone.

I closed my eyes, the exhaustion too much.