“Are you sure this is right, Ethan?” I ask, looking out my window at the creepy, abandoned looking office building. There are broken windows and several burnt out streetlights. It doesn't exactly look like a great place to discuss campaign finances.

“Yes.” Ethan holds up the card and shrugs. “You want me to come in with you?”

I want to say yes. But, if I'm going to head up this organization, I can't have my body guard all the time. Especially if I'm discussing slightly illegal campaign issues with a sitting senator. It's better I do this alone.

“I think I should go in alone,” I say. I don't like the way my stomach twists when I say it. It's a bad omen, but it's too late to turn back now.

“I'll be right out here if you need anything.”

A flutter of worry bubbles up in my stomach. Ethan will be a long way away if anything goes wrong tonight. I tell myself I've had plenty of self-defense lessons. I'll be fine.

I step out into the night. Old snow crunches under my feet as I leave the safety and warmth of Ethan's car and go into the building. The inside isn't much better than the outside. The heat's obviously been turned off for the night but at least the stairwell is well lit. I'll be able to find Suite 302 without too much trouble.

I have to walk to full length of the building and as far away from Ethan as I can get without actually leaving the premises to find the door I'm looking for. I stand there nervously for a moment before opening it. Something in my gut tells me to run. Tells me that I need to get back to Ethan as quickly as possible and never look back.

But that would mean admitting I was scared. That would be admitting defeat.

So I open the door.

The light is off in the room. It makes the silhouette of the man against the window that much more striking. For a moment, I think it's Dante, that this whole thing is his elaborate attempt to tease me. That would make sense. It makes me smile, and I step forward, hearing the door close behind me.

“Dante?”

The man turns from the window and the lights flicker on.

It is definitely not Dante. In fact, it's the last person in the entire world that I want to see.

“Hello, Cara.”

Raw fear steals my voice and I step back. This is the voice I hear in my nightmares.

“No...” I whisper, my limbs not responding to my thoughts anymore. “No...”

“That's no way to greet an old friend,” he says, frowning slightly.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, grabbing at the doorknob, desperate to get away, but it's locked behind me. Someone must have locked it when it shut. I'm trapped in the room with him. With John Norwood, the man who ruined my life and haunts my nightmares. I keep trying the door, even though I know it's futile.

“I'm here to see you.” He moves forward, stepping further into the light of the room. He's the same height as Dante, but that's the last similarity between them.

Norwood has thin blonde hair where Dante's is luxurious and dark, a paunch in his stomach where Dante is all muscle, and age where Dante is young. But it's the eyes that are the real difference between them. Dante's are dark and wild, but with a kindness and warmth that keeps them bright. John Norwood's are brown, but evil and cold. There is no warmth or charm, no redemption to the darkness residing underneath. They are flat, like a shark's.

The eyes are so emotionless that I am surprised that my mother ever saw love in them.

In my initial terror, he looked exactly the way I remembered him, but a second look reveals the changes. On the edges of my vision I catch glimpses of the bald patch covered by a bad comb-over, and the weight around his middle. There are more wrinkles around his mouth and less strength to his shoulders. However, for the most part, I still see him as the man he was over a decade ago. My mind is unable to see anything but the man who took my mother from me.

Norwood reaches out and strokes my cheek with his fingertip. The motion is soft and gentle, but it spurs my panic. I press hard into the door, wishing I could just pass through it like a ghost. I wish I were a ghost. It would be better than being trapped here with him.

His hand traces the curve of my face, down to my throat, caressing me softly. Without warning, his fingers tighten around the delicate base of my throat, squeezing just hard enough to make the primal fear of suffocation very real.

“Did you think you could hide from me, Cara?” he growls, bringing his face close to mine. His breath stinks of mints and cigarette smoke. “Did you think I wouldn't find you? That you would be safe here?”

I squirm, trying to get away. When I was younger, he was gentle with me, but I saw the marks he left on my mother. I saw the bruises. I went with her to the doctor's appointments where she said she tripped. I knew what evil he was capable of.

“So pretty, just like your mother. You whimper just like her too, you know.” He smiles a cold smile. “I wonder if you'll look just as pretty stretched out on the road.”

I decide right there that I'm going to kill him, even if it's the last thing I ever do.

Norwood laughs at my struggles, tightening his grip. My vision is fading and my limbs won't move the way I want them too. He waits until my vision is just a tiny pinprick of light before releasing me. I fall to the ground, shaking and gasping for air.

“I'll kill you, you bastard!” I screech, my throat raw from his hand.

“It's good to see you have your mother's fire,” he says with a chuckle. He squats down in front of me. His disgusting eyes are the only objects that aren't fuzzy in my world. “I was afraid you would have lost it having the mob protect you at every turn. I'm glad to see your mother passed that on to you.”

“Don't you talk about her,” I growl. Speaking hurts my throat.

He laughs in my face. The smell of covered-up cigarette smoke makes me nauseous.

“She had fire too, you know. It's why I was so angry when she said she was leaving me. She was so delicious. That skin. Those delicate hands...”

I look up at him and his mouth curves into a cruel smile. He's enjoying tormenting me with this. He's found a weak spot in my armor and he's pressing it as hard as he can.

“Why did you have to ruin things? I could have been a good father to you,” he says. His voice is soothing and he's put his face into something that looks paternal and caring. It's a mask and I know I can't trust it, but it's hard not too when he looks at me like that. I know that that mask is why he's so successful in politics. People trust him.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, staggering to my feet. I can see again, though I'm still having trouble catching my breath.

“Oh, lots of things.”

“I'll get you what you want. You want campaign money? You can have it,” I tell him. “I have connections.”

“I know you do, but that's not what I need.”

I swallow hard. This is going to be bad. This night is not going to end well.

“You ran from me, Cara. You denied me, you defied me, and you made me come looking for you. I'm not pleased, Cara. Not pleased at all.” He steps toward me and I shrink back as much as possible.

“I'm not my mother,” I whisper. “You killed her.”

“You have no proof.” He shrugs. “But, you are the same as her. Just seeing you fills me with nostalgia. I hear you play piano almost as well as she did.”

“I don't play at all,” I lie. I look around the room, searching for an escape. I can't find one. Panic flutters at the bottom of my ribs and it's taking everything I have not to lose my calm.

“Oh, yes you do. Your favorite is Clair de Lune. You play it almost as well as your mother, but you always off on the arpeggios. You should work on your left hand more.”

My eyes go wide. I've never played in public. I've only ever played in my home and there is no way he should know that I even play it, let alone which hand is struggling.

“You see, Cara, you never escaped me. I knew where you were all along because you belong to me. Your mother was mine and now you're mine.” His lips curve up in a cruel smile.

I hate the way he says my name. It makes my skin crawl and I wish he would call me anything else.

“Why'd you wait ten years?” I ask. I'm proud that my voice doesn't crack. I feel like I'm made of cracks and at any moment, I'll shatter into a million pieces.

“I was busy.” He shrugs as if I can be replaced if he desires. “You aren't my only plaything. I wanted to see what you would do on your own, and frankly, I'm rather disappointed. Though, what should I have expected of trailer-trash in the first place?”

“Fuck you,” I lash out. I'm surprised that his disappointment still hurts and sick that I still have the innate desire to seek his approval. Somehow, I still see him as a father figure from dating my mother.

His hand moves faster than I remember and I suddenly see stars. The pain of his slap comes only a little bit after, burning and tingling across my cheek. In one smooth motion, he grips my throat again. He squeezes and it hurts more this time. The bruises are already aching.

I see an opportunity and bring my knee up as hard as I can, hoping to catch him off guard. He bats my knee away with his leg as if it's nothing and shakes his head.

“No, no little Cara,” he whispers, sounding like a doting father chastising a petulant child. “You're mine. You need to learn your place.”

I scream, loosing all the power in my lungs in a plea for help. I pray that Ethan hears me, that someone-- anyone-- comes to my rescue. He slams my head against the door. Red blurs my vision and I feel sick to my stomach. I wish I would just black out.

“Go ahead and scream again,” he dares me. He pushes his body against mine and I can feel his superior strength as I struggle. “This place is deserted. No one is going to help you.”

My next scream dies in my throat and I let out a weak whimper instead. Mr. Norwood's eyes burn with darkness. There is no warmth to them. No chance of pity or redemption. The only thing I can see is hate and pain.

“Fuck you,” I whisper. There's much less strength to my words this time, but I am determined to fight him. I'm not the same girl I was ten years ago.

“That won't do, Cara,” he says, using my name like a leash to hold me against my will. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gentle motion is a strange contradiction to the heartlessness he's shown me. “I'm going to have to break you. I will destroy everything you hold dear if you fight me.”

I stubbornly stick my chin out. “I'll stop you.”

He slaps me again and stars dance across my vision.

“Your Savio family crime syndicate?” He scoffs. “They only think you're safe. They let you come to this meeting. What good protectors they are.”

“I have other ways,” I hiss. This isn't my family's fault. This is mine. I should have brought Ethan. I'll never make this mistake again.

“You mean you'll get your precious Dante to stop me?” He laughs and the sound makes me shiver. “Go ahead and try it. I'll destroy him. I own the world he operates in. He can't save you. No one can.”

I set my jaw. I'm not going to let fear overcome me. He's bluffing. There's no way he's that powerful. Dante won't fail me.

A slow, sinister grin crosses Mr. Norwood's face. It's a thing of nightmares. “You are so like your mother, Cara. I should have come for you earlier.”

I close my eyes as he winds up his hand again. Stars aren't the right word for the tiny floating lights that fill my vision.

Be strong. You can survive this. You can survive anything, I tell myself. I cling to those words as he hits me again. And again. And again.

Be strong.