Chapter Three
Ella
Itake a long shower, letting the hot water soothe my frayed nerves and tender muscles. I even remember to lock the door this time.
Wrapping myself in the fluffy bathrobe I found hanging behind the door, I brush my hair and twist it into a messy bun.
In search of clothes, I head into the walk-in closet, hoping to find my suitcase there. Given my toiletries and makeup were in the bathroom, I’m hopeful my other belongings survived, too.
I stop in my tracks in the doorway.
This closet is the size of my bedroom at home.
For a moment I just stare before stepping inside, trying to process what I’m seeing.
There’s no sign of my suitcase or any of my things. Instead, there are rows and rows of designer clothing.
I feel like I’ve walked into some high-end boutique.
Moving slowly along the shelves, I let my hands brush over the exquisite fabrics before pulling open a few drawers.
Everything is here. Fine lingerie, sexy sleepwear, skimpy swimwear, short and long skirts, blouses and shirts in every color, sundresses, stunning cocktail gowns, and gorgeous evening dresses. There’s also a variety of coats, hats, and sunglasses.
No expense has been spared.
And don’t get me started on the shoe collection. It takes up a significant part of the space. Rhia would lose her mind if she saw these expensive heels.
Everything is my size.
The thought makes me pause.
Not just roughly my size either. I’m certain every single piece would fit me perfectly.
I step back, stunned, gaping at the obsessive luxury surrounding me.
All of this would have cost a fortune. What a waste of money.
Is my captor, whoever he is, trying to buy my compliance with this lavishness? If that was the plan, he’s failing spectacularly.
I’m sure a lot of women would go crazy for a wardrobe like this, but I’m not one of them. I’m all for comfort, ideally with style, but it’s not a prerequisite. Most of these clothes I normally wouldn’t wear.
There’s a distinct lack of pants. Not a single pair of trousers, jeans, or shorts anywhere. Not even yoga pants. At home, I practically live in those.
Oh God, listen to me. A hostage bitching about the wardrobe when other abductees end up in shallow graves. What’s wrong with me?
One thing is becoming clear, though.
My kidnapping wasn’t spontaneous.
It was planned. Carefully.
There’s a knock on the door, and a moment later Mariella steps into the room with a shy smile on her face.
Before she can say anything, I ask, “Mariella, do you know what happened to my luggage?”
She shakes her head, her eyes dropping to the floor again. “I not know,” she whispers.
“Please find out where it is and bring it to me. I’d like my own clothes.”
“But… but,” she stammers. “Everything you need is there. Everything is new… just for you,” she says in her heavily accented English.
She looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads.
I suppose she doesn’t understand why I’m upset, but all I want is my stuff. I want to wear what makes me comfortable, to help me stay strong for whatever lies ahead.
For a moment I’m tempted to yell at her and demand, Bring me my things now. But I stop myself. She’s not the villain. In fact, she looks frightened of me. God knows why.
“Please, Mariella. Just get my things for me,” I say as calmly as I can.
She nods quickly, still avoiding my gaze, and slips out of the room.
A little while later, Mariella returns.
“I’m sorry. Boss said no,” she apologizes, shuffling from foot to foot, not daring to look at me. “Please come. Signor Baroni wants to talk to you. I wait by door.”
With a small, nervous nod in my direction, she turns and leaves.
Who is Signor Baroni?
I haven’t heard the name before. Is he my kidnapper?
So Tiero didn’t do it.
Relief rushes through me, only to be replaced by a fresh wave of fear. Nausea rises, and the delicious omelet from earlier threatens to make a reappearance.
What does this Signor Baroni want with me?
For a moment I consider staying right where I am. But that won’t change anything. I need to find out why I’m here.
With a deep, steadying breath in and a slow exhale out, I will my racing heart to calm.
I glance around at the opulent range of clothes.
Rummaging through the drawers, I pick a black lace bra and matching underwear, then choose a relatively simple blue shirt dress with pockets.
Perfect for hiding the butter knife I stole from breakfast. I fasten a thin brown leather belt around my waist so the dress isn’t too baggy.
Searching through the shoe collection for something comfortable, I finally spot a pair of brown ballerina flats. Delighted, I pull them out. These I could run in, should the opportunity for escape arise.
I check myself one last time in the full-length mirror.
You can do this. You are brave. You are courageous.
As promised, Mariella is waiting by the door. When she sees me, she gives me a thin smile and gestures for me to follow her.
Why does this girl look so scared? Is she afraid of this Signor Baroni?
Surely she isn’t afraid of me.
We walk through the vast house, and I realize too late I didn’t pay attention to what’s around me, too caught up in my own thoughts.
We step outside into the sunshine. It looks like another perfect day in paradise.
I wish I could enjoy it, but who could under the circumstances?
Mariella leads the way through perfectly manicured gardens lined with colorful flower beds. I’d normally stop and smell the roses, but what’s been normal since I got into that car?
We reach the edge of the property, and the vast expanse of the Mediterranean Sea stretches out before me. Perched high on a cliff, the view is breathtaking.
A stone balustrade runs along the edge. I glance down and see a shoreline littered with rocks far below. We follow the path beside it until we reach a small alcove.
It offers a bit more privacy, thick bushes enclosing the area on three sides. A long table and several chairs stand in the middle, with a tray of refreshments and a vase of cheerful summer flowers placed neatly in the center.
Mariella nods politely and gestures for me to continue without her.
A balding, gray-haired man in his early sixties sits at the table, fanning himself with a newspaper against the heat.
He rises when he sees me approaching.
He’s short and stubby, reminding me of a thumb without a nail.
I stop in my tracks, recognizing him immediately.
The man in the car.
My kidnapper.