8. Kidnapped in a Bonnet
Kidnapped in a Bonnet
Bianca
The right love will have a girl looking wild if she’s not careful. Exhibit A: Me running out of my house with zero cares or a glance at a mirror. Nothing is coming between me and the source of my moans.
My kitten heel sandals clack across the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The gold-toned designer shoes add an extra shimmy to my step, which I use to switch my hips. If people are going to gawk, I’ll give them a show.
A small crowd on the sidewalk parts with loud stares and hushed whispers about the woman in green Buffalo check pajama shorts teasing her thighs and a cream sleep shirt with a teddy bear in the middle. My hot pink bonnet and pocketbook don’t match a thing, but at least I threw on a bra.
Sunlight catches on the pasticceria, bathing the small pastry shop in golden ribbons. Clouds part and angels sing in Tamela Mann-like harmony in reverence for the greatest place in Naples.
Mr. Giuseppe waves from the sole window, a smile stretching his snow-white mustache and a hand coaxing me to enter his shop of pastry pleasure.
He lifts a plate of sfogliatella, which is all it takes for me to click my heels in the air and sashay into the rich aroma of freshly baked dough and confectioner’s sugar.
A tear slips at the layered pastry fluffed with cream filling waiting for me. This is what it’s like to be God’s favorite.
“Uè! Tutto appost?“ Mr. Giuseppe asks with a cheerful melody.
“I’m good,” I answer in Italian. “Overslept.”
“Ah!”
He speaks a mile a minute, shifting between pinched fingers and pressed palms about saving my pastries during the morning rush.
They go fast, which usually has me out of bed to beat the line before the shop opens at eight.
Mr. Giuseppe makes every pastry with love.
Dough rolled with skilled hands, a smile for every customer that comes with a life lesson they didn’t ask for, topped with fresh raspberries.
I hug the carb connoisseur, promising to come the day after tomorrow.
While I’ll miss my daily morning sfogliatella, my body needs a different pleasure that I’ve postponed for too long.
I want my toes cracked like fingers and a gallon of electrolytes with an Advil after being tossed and turned every which way but loose.
Men in Naples look nice and smile, but I need more than a kind ciao. I need someone who can fuck me through pleasantries and sweat my hair out. I’m trying to ride someone’s son’s chin in the most disrespectful way. My spennanight bag is already packed and ready to go.
Cold air presses into my skin once I reach my building. The apartment lobby is an air-conditioned chessboard of granite and elevators. The front desk separates the residences from the business suites and the daily shuffle of people. Clients heading to appointments and neighbors off to work.
I usually run into Ms. Iliana and her mean-ass chihuahua at this hour. She moved to a lower floor years ago after her husband passed away. Every morning, she walks her demon to the florist. There’s nothing loving about her dog, but she’s a kind elder with an eye for vibrant fabrics.
Wonder where she is.
Lots of characters live here. A few assholes, but mostly nice people.
Mama Vee always said I have the gift of gab.
I enjoy chatting, hence my gravitation towards human resources.
I’m an excellent judge of character. Like right now, the silent alarm in my head is banging pots and pans about the man following me to the elevator.
Where is Luca?
He works the front desk in the mornings and never misses the chance to tell me a random American fact he found online.
Yesterday, it was that the average American eats about forty-two pounds of cheese a year.
His comb-over and proud smile are always on display when he walks me to the elevator from his station.
Weird.
Bane steps in behind me. The veins in his forearms bulge beneath his crossed arms, the black vest suspended over his gigantic frame. Tactical gear is a choice for a Thursday morning. Maybe he’s security?
“Penthouse B?” I ask the wall of stony expression in Italian. The small hairs on the back of my neck raise under his shadow.
I don’t know Bane’s name, but if the bald head and stunted neck fit, so be it. He’s at least six feet with all kinds of muscles digging into his black vest and tight, long-sleeved shirt. It’s clear he guzzles protein shakes and lifts gym equipment for exercise.
“I ran out of my apartment for a pastry. It was an emergency.” I motion toward the hot pink bonnet on my head and shift to the side of the car. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?”
Silence.
Okay.
I clear my throat. “It’s nice, the building. The penthouse too.”
Bane’s dark eyes narrow. “Which one?” he asks in Italian.
“Penthouse A,” I say, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. “Do you live in Penthouse B?”
Something flashes in his gaze.
Shit, does management know about my housesitting? Is this a personal escort to kick me off the premises?
“Your name.” Bane’s voice is cold.
“Diana Peretti,” rolls off my tongue faster than I process the implication of lying. This man triggers my flight response, which is screaming for me to run.
The elevator opens to honey wood floors and steel-framed windows over a leather bench.
“It was nice meeting you,” I lie, smiling.
Regret is a raggedy bitch who always shows up in hindsight.
All the times I wanted to try the Michael Myers challenge but never did return to haunt me.
Maybe if I practiced sprinting to my door with keys in hand and the killer behind me, I’d be ready for Bane’s meaty fingers to shoot through the elevator.
He barrels left, bypassing the other penthouse on the floor, heading straight for me.
“Hey!” His vise-like grip tightens over my arm. “This is unprofessional!” I shout in Italian.
My kitten heels stutter over polished wood to find some type of friction to stop Bane from dragging my Black ass down the hall. I’m on my tiptoes like that one witch in The Craft before she hocus-pocused that man out of the window.
“Open.” Bane’s patience is shorter than his neck. He pushes me toward the door.
He’s lucky he’s a heavyweight. Otherwise, I’d fight his big ass for trying to manhandle me. What kind of security training encourages such behavior?
“This conversation would go over better if you unhanded me.” I ease my key into the lock.
De-escalation through calm tones and neutral body language is muscle memory from years in HR. Identify a mutually beneficial, shared goal and maybe they won’t kick me out.
“Open.” He nudges me again.
“I am, Bane!” Damn him and his pushiness. “HR will have a field day with you after I’m done.”
The foyer is suffocating with him squeezing me into the bite-size space of stone walls and art in gilded frames. Does he want to check the thermostat too, being so damn nosy?
I snap my fingers. “I demand to speak with your boss right now before I call the police. La polizia!”
When I leave here, I’m treating myself to a getaway on the private island I’ll buy after winning my lawsuit from this bullshit. Sunshine, pina coladas, and millions in my bank account. Pedicures on the beach and a naked, oiled man to work every ounce of grief out of my body.
I’ve heard stories about racial discrimination in Italy, but all of this over housesitting is excessive.
“Who are you working for?” Bane pushes past me.
“I’m unemployed,” I answer through an exhausted sigh. “I want to speak to your boss. Now.”
His bushy brow quirks, dissolving his stony expression into a curious glance. “He’s been looking for you.”
“And what, you’re his bounty hunter?” I scoff. “You tell him if I don’t get an apology and some form of reparations for harm caused, I will rain down hell on his doorstep.”
“Who do you work for?” Bane asks again.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I don’t repeat myself.”
He steps forward, heat wafting from his big-ass head under recessed lights. “Who do you work for?”
“Kiss my ass.” Proof of employment was not a requirement to stay here.
“Who do you work for?”
“None of your business. I already answered your question. You don’t scare me.”
He does, very much so.
His torso alone eclipses me and all but swallows the black shirt glued to his boulders for arms. Bane’s jaw works from side to side before he reaches for a baton holstered at his waist.
Now we’re adding security brutality to the running list of crimes? I think the fuck not!
His meaty hands are too slow to wrap around the black handle that I grab. My thumb slides over a button I accidentally push in our tug of war that sends him to his knees. Bane convulses as zaps ricochet through his body. He collapses to the ground in a scream louder than Marv from Home Alone.
“You tried to beat and electrocute me?!“ I twist the baton into the fabric over his groin. “You fucked with the wrong one.” His body jolts through a howl.
He farts and flails from side to side until his combat boots hit the floor in a thud. The foot I kick is limp. Pee soils his black cargo pants.
Shit, did I kill him?
The baton slips from my shaking hands. Committing murder abroad was not on my itinerary.
Should I check for a pulse? Could I feel one through that thick neck?
Bane still hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed, his thin pink lips slightly parted. I need to go. I just…I’ve never killed someone after knocking them out.
“I’ll say it was self-defense. He came at me, and he never identified himself as security. He could be on the most wanted list. Maybe I helped catch a predator.”
My fingers work over the headache building through my bonnet. When I ran out of the apartment for my morning pastry, I didn’t expect all of this to happen!
Girl, if you don’t move.
“I’ll go to Luca,” I say. “If he’s not there, I’ll go back to Mr. Giuseppe. He’d keep me safe, slide me a pastry, and call the embassy for me.”
Bane will wake up soon.
If he’s not dead.
The lobby is still empty. There are no employees, no residents, no customers heading to the business suite. Nothing.
“Luca?” My voice echoes across tiles and marble columns.
“This makes no sense,” I pant between breaths, sweat beading under my bonnet. I grab the phone on the front desk and frown. “Shit,” I mutter in a failed attempt to resurrect the dial tone.
I know damn well the rapture didn’t happen.
Going back to Mr. Giuseppe, it is.
My feet skid to a halt at three men piling out of a car pulling up to the curb. They’re all dressed in the same tactical gear as Bane with secret-service earpieces.
“Shit!”
I hop behind the front desk and army-crawl back to the residential elevators. My knees groan at the cold stone digging into my joints, unprepared for all of this damn physical activity. I peek around the corner and release a long breath.
They’re gone.
Without knowing the building’s layout, the safest bet is to hide in the penthouse. I’ve seen enough movies to know goons take the stairs. I’m not trying to fight a soul in close quarters if it comes to that.
“Dammit,” I hiss, searching for the cell phone I forgot to take out of my apartment.
My eyes land on a fire alarm across from the elevators.
Bingo.
I look both ways before running to the bat signal for someone to help. My fingers graze the handle when a sharp prick pierces my neck. My eyes flutter and my knees give.
Everything goes black.