Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
ISLA
“Tell me what I want to know.” My interrogator wears the usual dark clothes and balaclava, one gloved hand wrapped around the handle of a brown paper bag.
But this time, he’s not perched on the chair, comfortable in his intimidation. Instead, he stands a few feet from my cell, looming over my seated position on the concrete floor, his modulated voice somehow louder than usual. Meaner.
“I’ve told you everything,” I whisper, defeated.
I’ve told him nothing and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. I want to go home. To see Raffael. To hug Quinn. To work things out with my father.
“This is your last chance,” he warns. “I’m running out of patience.”
My pulse stutters. I’m not sure if it’s in fear or hope.
Sure, the warning should have me trembling, but the psychological fuckery of being stuck in a cage with the same conversation playing on a loop like Groundhog Day makes any change in script seem like a blessing worth celebrating.
“Tell me about Cavallo,” he demands, his modulated voice harsh.
My heart seizes.
I’ve tried not to fixate on Raffael. Not to let the idea of him become my lifeline. But with all this—the cage, the questions, the chemical burns on arrival—it’s hard not to obsess over the memory of us together to keep me hopeful.
“What about him?” I blink up at the man towering over me.
“Tell me what I want to know.”
My chest hollows, the ache of despair returning like a tidal wave.
It’s still the same game, just prefaced differently.
I hang my head and stare at my belongings on the floor beside me, my world whittled down to the toothbrush, comb, can of deodorant, and the few other meager items Quinn placed in my tote.
I probably should’ve been more industrious with my captivity. Made a shiv out of the toothbrush instead of passing the days perfecting my oral hygiene. But on the bright side, if I die, I’ll have teeth polished to a mirror shine.
“Have it your way.” He reaches into his bag and retrieves a bottle of water. “Drink.” He drops it to the floor and kicks it toward the cell bars.
Bile teases the back of my mouth as I focus on the threat, the cap seal broken, the water tampered with.
We’ve done this dance before, too. I didn’t appreciate the choreography.
“Drink the fucking water or we repeat history.” He reaches into the bag again, the paper falling to the floor to reveal a metal canister in his hand, just like the one he used to gas me in the limo.
I lunge to my feet, my adrenaline spiking. “Why?”
“We’re going for a drive.”
I shake my head, my throat tightening in preparation for the onslaught of pepper gas. “What are you going to—”
“Drink.”
I whimper, scrunching my nose to fight the build of tears. “Please, don’t do this. I—”
“Drink or suffocate, which is it?”
“No.” I grab the bars, my palms sweating. “Please. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“Drink. Now.”
I struggle to breathe, the air brittle in my lungs, my blouse too tight.
“Drink,” he roars, the volume of his voice bleeding through the sterile modulation.
I latch onto the sound, turning it over in my head, trying to place it.
“Are you going to make me count?” He grabs the ring pull at the top of the canister. “One… Two…”
“Wait. Stop.” I fall to my knees, the bottle laid before me. “I’ll drink. I promise. Just tell me what’s in the water.”
“A sedative.”
I hyperventilate at the thought of being unconscious and at his mercy again. And yet the memory of being pepper gassed and choking hits equally hard. “Last time you undressed me when I—”
“I don’t want to touch you any more than you want me doing it.” He jerks his chin at the bottle as if to hurry me up. “I did you a favor last time. Your clothes were covered in chemicals. They would’ve continued to irritate your skin.”
I dig my nails into my palms, hating that sedation seems like the lesser of two evils.
“Hurry. Up.” He cocks his head and poises to pull the canister ring, his dark eyes predatory through the balaclava. The deepest, bleakest brown.
“Okay.” I scramble for the bottle through the bars, my hands trembling as I twist the lid. I take a sip, the liquid sliding down my throat and colliding with the bile rushing to meet it.
“All of it.”
I drink. One swallow, then another, each harder than the last. My stomach revolts. My lunch threatens to make a comeback.
I cough. Retch. Gag.
Tears trek my cheeks as I force the water down, draining the bottle before letting it fall to the floor. I swipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my crinkled suit and brace myself to stand, determined to meet whatever comes next head-on.
The moment I grab the bars to pull myself upright, the world tilts, my head a victim of vertigo.
“I suggest you remain seated,” he instructs.
I’m about to defy him with what little grit I have left when a thud sounds above us. A bang. Loud and heavy.
My captor stiffens, shock flashing in his eyes. Or maybe it’s guilt. Possibly fear?
Whatever it is, his reaction makes it clear I wasn’t meant to hear the commotion.
“I knew it.” I force myself to my feet, my limbs heavy. “You’re not working alone.”
He’s one of the men from the yacht. Raffael’s cousin or Bishop. I can’t tell which, but it’s one of them.
He ignores the accusation and stalks to the door, pressing an ear to the jamb, pretending I haven’t exposed him for having a co-conspirator.
Yet the charade continues, his silence deafening as he listens, the world narrowing to my thunderous heartbeats and quickly fading coherence.
What if I’m wrong?
What if it’s not a co-conspirator and instead, it’s potential rescue?
I struggle to think through the thickening fog. To blink through my tunneling vision.
God, what do I do?
I cling tighter to the bars, drag in a deep breath, and scream, “Help. I’m down here.”
He glares at me over his shoulder, pure hatred bleeding through his disguise. “Shut the fuck up.”
I comply. Not because I’m willing to surrender. It’s the water. The sedative. I can’t focus.
My head lulls as he inches the door open and slips through, closing it behind him.
“Help,” I scream, my voice distant to my own ears. “Please help me.”
I fall to the floor on hands and knees, the thuds echoing from upstairs muffled by mental static.
“Please…” I can’t keep my eyes open. Can barely stay awake. “I’m down… here.”
My arms weaken and I crumple onto my side, the cold concrete hard against my hip.
“Please,” I cry, the darkness taking over, the lull of slumber too strong.
I register a squeak of hinges. The frantic clap of footsteps. But I’m already falling. Succumbing.
“Isla?” The call is feminine. Dreamlike. “Isla.”
Quinn?
I battle the darkness, prying my eyes open, willing them to focus. And there she is, the best friend I’d pushed away, now perched on her knees outside my cage, gaze wild, expression born of terror.
“You can’t be here.”
“It’s okay. I’m not alone.” She reaches through the bars, warm fingers brushing my jaw. “What did he do to you? How do I get you out?”
I whimper. Too drawn. Too tired.
“Isla.” She pats my cheek. “Stay with me.”
I fight. I really do. But it’s like swimming against a torrential tide. “I can’t.” I place my hand over hers as the darkness reclaims me. “I’m sorry… for everything.”