Chapter 3
Gemma
A jackhammer pounded in my head, each blow pulsing at my temples.
I opened and closed my eyes against the relentless pressure.
Hangover? One, two, three … I counted the cocktails from the night before.
How had I ended up this way when I drank more water than alcohol?
The ceiling captured my full attention, ceasing my foggy thoughts.
A floral-textured, unfamiliar ceiling. I bolted upright, my windpipe tightening.
What happened last night? The Piazza, my small bachelorette dinner, my father… I smothered my gasp. Papa had slumped against the table, out cold. “Papa? Papa, are you here?”
Did someone call an ambulance? Legs shaking, I stumbled off the bed, my gaze darting around the room. Not my hotel suite. The walk-in closet across from the king bed lay open, revealing men’s suits in a neat row, and several shoes on display behind downlit glass cabinets.
Maybe Willow plotted one of her childish pranks?
No, she’d never dare take a prank this far.
I stared down at my clothing, still in the same dress as last night.
Expensive colognes sat atop the vanity, a black leather lounge perched in the far corner, and two glass balcony doors framed the majestic Tyrrhenian Sea.
My suitcase and the wedding gifts from my hotel room sat on the coffee table. How had they gotten here… inside a man’s bedroom? I lifted one silver-wrapped box and read the card:
Dear Gemma and Matthew,
We hope you honor the Lord with the sacred vows you’re about to enter into.
Love, Amy and Derek.
Matthew’s parents. I tore into the paper and held a hardcover marriage devotional Bible. What strange twilight zone had I plunged into? Blood rushed from my head to my toes, chilling me.
Get out of here. Find Papa.
Clutching the hardback in one hand, I stripped the bed, tossing pillows over my shoulder.
My phone and purse… nowhere. A shuddering breath escaped.
I bolted for the door, but the heavy wood wouldn’t budge.
Locked. The Bible thudded to the floor as I fumbled with the handle, my jittery fingers hunting for a lock.
“Hello? Anyone there?” Each desperate bang echoed; the wood vibrating against my palms. “Let me out! Now!”
My tired hands spanned the solid structure, forehead planted on the wood as my shoulders slouched from the wave of despair washing over me.
A resounding click vibrated against my splayed palms. Straightening, I snatched the bible, the first attainable item, trapping the book against my chest.
The door swung open.
Breath ceased in my lungs. “You.”
The stranger from the restaurant. His tall, wide frame dominated the doorway, and a flirtatious grin spread across his chiseled features. “Me.” He prowled into the room.
Instinct propelled me backward, mirroring each step he advanced, determined to keep my distance. “Why am I here? Is my father all right?” I swallowed, my gaze darting around for a heavier object to use in my defense.
His gaze lingered on my face. “Patience, Gemma. You’ll understand everything soon enough.
” He grinned, the gesture a practiced display of casualness, as if we were out sharing a coffee.
He held out bottled water in one hand and two pills in the other.
“Here, take these. You look like you could use them.”
I should have seen it coming last night.
The way he’d nonstop stared… sinister intent sparked in this man’s eyes the minute he set sights on our table.
I inspected the pill and bottled water, then met his gaze.
Papa didn’t experience another heart attack; he’d been drugged.
We’d been drugged . My shoulders loosened in instant relief, but the feeling was short-lived in the face of immediate danger.
I cocked a brow. No way I’d take anything he offered. “You drugged us!”
His lips pinched together, the forced patience in his expression breaking. “Gemma. It’s just aspirin. Take them .” His voice lost its earlier, false-polite edge.
Breath seemed no longer possible to inhale. Every fibre of my being screaming to run, to escape. The mantra in my brain unrelenting. Danger. Danger. Danger. I hurled the Bible, the spine landing a direct hit to his head.
His pained groan reverberated off the walls.
Skirting his crouched form, I dashed for the door, managing one foot past the threshold.
A strong arm secured my waist and jerked me back inside.
“Help me!” I shouted to the two crossed-arm guards who showed not one flicker of alarm.
“Someone help me!” My feet grazed the rug, kicking the bottle he’d dropped when he’d hunched over in pain.
I hit the bed, muffling my scream against the heavy, textured cotton and scrambling up its length.
He rubbed at his forehead and cursed in Italian.
Then his narrowed gaze zeroed in on the Bible on the floor.
He whipped to me after viewing my choice of weapon.
One brow cocked. “Well, well,” he murmured, more to himself than to me, his words tinged with dry humor, “aren’t you the little Bible thumper. ”
“ Gemma .”
The sound outside… My name! Faint, as if from a distance. “Papa?” I ran for the door, but he captured my shoulders, utilizing no effort to restrain me. As for my own bravado, I clenched my small jaw and prayed I emitted the same menace. “Where’s my father?”
He sighed, eyes fluttering as though close to losing patience. “Always asking questions, aren’t you?”
I took a swing at him, but his hand shot out, a steel clamp gripping my wrist. “Let us go, you maniac!”
Baring perfect white teeth, he tilted forward, his sharp nose bumping mine. “Next time you try to hit me, I won’t be so gentle.”
He told the truth because he squeezed my wrist with unforgivable force.
Drawing in a breath, he nodded to the doorway. “ If you behave,” he emphasized the word, his eyes cold, “I might consider letting you see your father. For a moment.”
“You’re hurting me.” I gnashed my molars and expected him to show mercy, but this man lacked the trait.
Those obstinate green eyes bore into me.
He didn’t repeat the warning, but tightened his grip.
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air.
I bit inside my cheek. Oh, how I wished to overpower him, to hurt him, too.
Defeat clogging my throat, I nodded. He let go, and I massaged the dull throb of my reddened wrist.
He glimpsed my kneading, and his jaw flexed.
Did he just flinch? No, I had to be mistaken. As if someone like him, a complete psychopath, would feel remorse.
“Let’s go.” He tugged me outside the room.
The men guarding the door stood at rigid attention, nodding to Psycho as we passed.
I forced myself to meet their gaze, trying to appear calm even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
Both were broad-shouldered, dressed identically in dark suits that looked a little too tight.
One had a scar cutting across his left eyebrow, a detail that made him seem even more menacing.
The other… my gaze snagged on his fingers, tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh.
He seemed younger, maybe even a little bored, his eyes shifting from me to Enzo and back again.
Their earpieces gleamed in the dim hallway light, a sign they were always listening for orders.
But Tapper’s nervousness made him seem less scary, almost…
human. Maybe I could talk to him later, if I got the chance.
Maybe he’d help me, if I asked him right .
I filed the information away, a small seed of hope planting in my mind.
Colorful artwork adorned the off-white walls in the wide corridor. Expensive vases decorated a marble console table by the curved staircase. Should I use the vase as a weapon? Too late, we’d already passed it. There had to be something else I could use to defend myself against this maniac.
This house, this mansion, reeked of old money and fresh citrus, a cloying combination tickling my nose.
Each polished surface gleamed under the downlights, reflecting their bright beams. The cold of the marble bit at my bare feet—a shocking change from the humid embrace of Sicily.
He gripped my arm like a vise as we descended.
A large double door marked the entrance: freedom.
My throat tightened the further we distanced from my one escape.
No one loomed in the foyer, not a single maid or butler.
We proceeded down a long hallway, where he opened another door.
Papa’s loud cries echoed from below. I bolted toward the sound, descending a set of stairs leading into an underground chamber stacked with wine shelves.
A cellar. The damp, earthy scent of aging wine hung thick in the air, mingling with a faint, metallic tang.
I squinted against the darkness, making out a shape in the corner.
My breath caught. A barred cage, no bigger than a walk-in pantry, cast long shadows from a single bare bulb overhead, the hum of the electricity a constant, unsettling drone.
Inside, a figure clung to the bars. “Papa?” I whispered, my stomach coiling at the sight of my father clinging to those bars.
“Gemma!” His shout faded into whispered relief.
Free to run to my father’s side, I clutched his hands through the bars.
“Oh, thank God you’re all right,” he rushed out and kissed my knuckles. “I’ve begged for hours to see you.”
“What is going on?” I whispered low enough for Papa to hear. “Who is this man?”
“This is why your mother refused to return to Italy. I had no idea they’d be capable of this. No wonder she divorced me.” He cupped my cheek through the bars. “Are you hurt, Mia figlia? Have they harmed you?”
“I’m fine.” I held his hand to my cheek, his poor, cold hand. Mum refusing to return? Their divorce? What on earth did he mean? “Please, tell me why this is happening?”