4
Where are you, Nikita?
I observed the shattered villa. The broken glass, the unmade bed, and the floor flooded with water.
There was no trace of my wife, but there was an uncorked bottle of Mo?t, pieces of glass and mirror on the floor, and some drops of blood that stained the candles we bought yesterday and never got to light.
I had returned a minute earlier than promised, feeling happy and hopeful, believing that the surprise I had prepared for my wife would strengthen our relationship. However, all I had managed to do was make it fall apart, like the bathtub overflowing before my eyes.
As soon as I arrived, the liquid was seeping out from under the door.
I immediately went on high alert. The smile I had worn turned into a grimace. The bouquet of flowers slipped from my fingers, along with the folder full of documents.
I roared her name from outside, even before frantically searching for the card to open the door. I don't even know how I found it or how I resisted the urge to break the door down when I got no response.
I was beside myself, sensing that something bad had happened to her. Nikita was not the type to fall asleep in the bathtub and would respond to any disturbance.
I prayed she wasn't dead. No, that was absurd, Koroleva wasn't one to die, but one to kill.
I managed to open the door, and as soon as my eyes took in the disaster, my heart burst into flames. I scanned the room, calling her name repeatedly; it didn't matter that my shoes were drowning as much as I was.
No trace. All there was was considerable chaos and signs of a struggle. She had fought back; I was sure of it.
My footsteps splashed through the water. I entered the bathroom, my pulse spiked again. The mirror was shattered, and a large splash of blood, smelling of gunfire, was visible.
I could almost calculate the angle from the stain that dripped over what was left of the mirror and the sink. The shell casing was on the floor, and the bullet had lodged in the small drain.
I reached the bathtub and turned off the water. I wanted to throw everything in frustration, but I held back because I knew it was a terrible idea; if there was evidence, that fit of rage could ruin it.
I cursed myself for leaving her alone.
These were our last hours on the island, and I had the brilliant idea to leave her in the villa without me! I was a fool! Since nothing had happened until that moment, I thought we were safe, but no, they were just waiting for the right moment when I was away from my wife to screw me over.
I should have brought a guard! I was so clouded by how I wanted to surprise her that I overlooked what had happened to Sarka a few hours ago. If something bad happened to my wife, I would never be able to forgive myself.
The image of Yuri flashed in my mind; I never got over his death, and this disappearance revived all my ghosts.
The same thing couldn't happen to her, it couldn't!
I needed to keep a cool head, focus on the details, and observe. Something had to lead me to whoever had taken her. Maybe there was a ransom note or a warning.
I returned to the living room and saw a service cart that hadn't been there in the morning, and on the bathtub shelf, I saw an ice bucket with an uncorked bottle.
If she had ordered a drink, maybe the waiter had encountered the person who took her.
I had to talk to him. I ran to the reception and interrupted a woman who was telling her life story to the receptionist. She glared at me, and I told her I was in a hurry and would return her in a moment.
I asked if my wife had called room service and who had brought the bottle.
The receptionist looked puzzled; according to her, she had been there all afternoon and hadn't received any request from our villa. Nonetheless, she contacted the restaurant in case the order had gone to them.
The response was the same, no one had delivered anything to our villa, which was the most secluded. I asked the receptionist to review the hallway security camera. She looked at me strangely because, up until that point, I hadn't told her the real reason I was there.
She told me she wasn't authorized, so she couldn't comply.
My desperation was growing.
The woman I had interrupted was looking at me impatiently. I fixed my eyes on the uniformed woman behind the counter.
"If you can't show me, I want to speak to someone who has the authority to do so."
"Excuse me, sir, but if it were possible, the only person who could would be the director."
"Then I want to talk to the damn director," I replied harshly. She jumped at my aggressive tone.
"Mr. Oikonomou is not here..." I didn't even let her finish. I slammed my hand down, causing her to let out a frightened yelp.
"Then make sure he is found, because if not, it might be you who doesn't make it home tonight if you don't get me to speak with him." She looked at me, very frightened, and then glanced over at the flowered woman, who had put a hand to her chest. "My wife has disappeared in your hotel, and I want to know who took her." Her expression filled with anxiety.
"Disappeared? Have you checked the bar? Maybe she's on the terrace."
"You'll be flying off the terrace if you don't tell me where your boss is."
At the threat, the flowered woman pulled out her phone and said she was going to call the police. I turned my head toward her.
"Do it, and the next flowers you wear won't be on your dress but at your funeral."
As I was shouting, the door behind the reception opened. A tall man with a stern expression looked at me.
"What's going on? What's all this commotion?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Oikonomou, this man says his wife is missing, he wants to see the cameras and speak with you. I told him I couldn't help him, but..."
"Don't worry, I'll handle it," the man said dismissively.
We both entered the office, and he made me recount what had happened.
The first thing he suggested was that we call the police as soon as I mentioned the gunshot and the bloodstains.
I demanded to see the footage before notifying anyone.
The cameras were working, but he hesitated because of the damn Data Protection Law.
"I couldn't care less about that law. My patience is running thin," I shouted, slamming my fist down with a dull thud that made the glass table tremble. His Adam's apple bobbed in fear.
"Calm down, Mr. Capuleto!"
"Calm down?! I'm telling you the villa is flooded, there's blood, a bullet, and my wife is missing, and you ask me to calm down?"
The man, who looked to be around fifty and had a wide range of incidents under his belt, tried to show empathy.
"I understand your state."
"You don't understand a damn thing! What would you do if it were your wife? Wouldn't you be going crazy trying to find out who the hell took her?"
The director watched me thoughtfully, then moved his hands to the computer mouse.
"I would ask you not to mention to anyone that I let you see the video."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to post it on social media or make a banner if that's what concerns you." He nodded slightly.
"Very well."
He entered the security system with a few clicks. He asked what time Nikita had returned to the villa to narrow down the timeframe, and once he found her image, he turned the screen so we could both watch what had happened.
We saw her enter, and then the hallway was empty. He fast-forwarded until half an hour later, when a woman in a hotel uniform appeared, pushing a cart with an ice bucket.
"It has to be her, the one who left the Mo?t in the room. Do you recognize her?" I asked hopefully.
"No, I'm sorry."
"And do you know all the staff that work here?" Directors often weren't involved in many hires.
"This is a very exclusive hotel, Mr. Capuleto. I personally select the staff, and I can guarantee that woman is not on our team."
"Could she be an intern or a temp?" He shook his head. "Alright, continue." If she didn't belong to the hotel, it meant she was an outsider lying in wait.
He pressed the button to resume the video. The camera had no sound, but we saw my wife open the door and let her in with total normality. My gut screamed, "Don't let her in," just like you shout at an actress in a movie to run because the killer is there.
Nikita was wearing a bathrobe and appeared calm.
The fake maid never came out. Eighteen minutes later, another person appeared in the hallway. This time it was a man, evident by his height, build, and gait.
He was a tall guy pushing a laundry cart full of towels. His face was obscured by a baseball cap, dark glasses, and his head tilted down enough to hide his features.
He parked the cart next to the door and entered easily, giving it a slight push. The maid must have left it ajar instead of closing it.
"Son of a bitch!" I roared when I saw him come out two minutes later with my wife's body in his arms.
He had his back to the camera. He placed her effortlessly in the cart and covered her with towels. My stomach clenched. I didn't want that bastard to touch her, much less take her away.
Damn it! What had they done to leave her unconscious? Was she okay? Was she still alive?
The mere thought of her being dead was like pulling the pin on a grenade. I felt like I was about to explode at any moment.
The maid walked with a limp. She left with the cart guy, clutching her shoulder in pain. Maybe the blood was hers. I prayed it was.
They disappeared, unhurried, through the same way they had arrived, without raising any suspicion.
I let out another curse and slammed the table again. The director looked at me nervously. He picked up the phone, saying he had a duty to inform the police as soon as possible.
I had already gone mad, lost in a haze where asteroids of guilt and fear struck me mercilessly.
It had to be that damn Chinese woman, for sure! Maybe they had followed us since we boarded the flight in Málaga.
I barely heard the director because I knew the cops wouldn't find shit, and I couldn't waste any more time. I had to find her.
"I want a copy of the footage, right now. I want you to email it somewhere. I'll pay you whatever you ask," I proclaimed, nearly out of breath.
"That goes against the law, Mr. Capuleto. I've already broken one by letting you see the video; I can't break another. The police have to handle this."
I jumped up, grabbed his head, and slammed it against the table. He turned his head to avoid suffocating.
"I am the damn law, and the police can kiss my ass. You're going to do what I say because no one messes with my family or kidnaps my wife and lives. You're either with me or against me. Obey, or consider yourself dead. Your choice."
"Wh-where do you want me to send it?"
"That's better."