35. Elizabeth
Waking up to discover you not only have a pounding headache but that you’re in a room that could have been decorated by Marie Antoinette sounds like the beginning of a mafia romance I would absolutely read.
Unfortunately, having it happen to you in real life is a one-star experience.
Though there is a glass bottle of water and a blueberry muffin on the bedside table, there is not a clock or radio or television. I know better than to even look for my phone. The man who abducted me probably threw it into the Hudson River.
After using the en-suite bathroom, I drink the water and eat the muffin, praying they aren’t drugged.
When it’s clear they aren’t and my head stops pounding so hard, I explore the room.
I’m not shocked to find cameras in plain sight and the door locked.
The windows, predictably, are also locked, but I can at least open the curtains.
Based on my view, this room is on the third floor and it’s late afternoon.
If I had to guess, I’d wager decent money that I’m in Italy. It’s not like it’s hard to put together who might want to abduct me.
I am surprised, though. I figured the stunt with The Drift was the opening salvo in a long game of character assassination.
I thought my cloud would be hacked, that my apartment would be broken into, that the men I’ve fucked would be offered cash to talk.
I thought I was prepared. I thought I had heeded Stas’s warning.
But I got it wrong.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The windows are too thick to break, the furniture is too heavy to move, and even if I did find a way to get a window open, the fall to the ground would certainly result in an injury. There’s not much I can do until someone opens the door.
Knowing that—acknowledging that—is important. Once I accept my situation, I can start making a plan.
Soon, there are voices in the hall and the sound of a key in the door. When it opens, a granite slab of a man fills the entire frame. All he says is, “Come.”
I have a feeling that if I refuse, he’ll sling me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—a situation I’m sure would piss any woman off, but would make me go nuclear in a way that would not be helpful right now.
So I exhale through my nose and follow him. I take note of the number of doors we pass, the turns we take, the location of the staircase that takes us down to the main floor.
We walk into a dining room, where a few men are seated at a table. The sentient, monosyllabic mountain points to a chair. “Sit.” I grit my teeth as I follow his instructions.
“Damn. You are not the person I wanted to see.”
There’s no stopping my gasp. Because Stas Dubinsky is sitting across from me.
I blink several times before studying his bitter coffee eyes, sharp cheekbones, and blond hair. He’s objectively handsome in photos and videos, but no media accurately captures how beautiful he is. It’s as if he stepped out of a graphic novel where everyone is drawn in steady, angular strokes.
It’s only when I feel the pressing need to exhale that I realize I’ve been holding my breath while genuinely gaping at him. “Not so unflappable now, am I?”
Humor flashes in his dark eyes. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Hi, Stas.”
“Nice hat.” Right, I put Wes’s Red Sox hat back on after my shower. How I slept in it, I have no idea. Though I suppose “sleeping” is a generous way to describe being forcibly sedated.
“I guess it’s rude to wear a hat at the dinner table,” I say.
Stas lifts a shoulder. “It’s even more rude to abduct people. Your table manners are impeccable compared to the rest of our companions.”
“Wait,” I say, more puzzle pieces clicking into place in my brain. “So you—?”
He nods. “I’ve been here for a few weeks.”
So this is why my private investigator couldn’t find Stas after he failed to contact me. My working theory was that he had been taken in by some agency. But no. He’s been here the whole time.
“How’d they get you?” Stas asks as a salad course is served.
“Abducted during a post-Pilates power walk. You?”
He stabs a piece of lettuce with his fork. “Pre-dawn run.”
“Were you at least on your cool down, or were they so rude as to keep you from your cardio?”
Stas’s eyes sparkle with amusement, but the rest of his face stays neutral. “I had just started kilometer seven when someone grabbed my arm and dragged me off the path, into the trees.”
“That’s harsh. Probably worse than me not being able to enjoy the salad I picked up.”
“You have salad now,” the crony beside me says. The chesty laugh that erupts from my mouth is so loud that everyone at the table jumps.
“Congratulations, Antonio,” Stas says drily, the consonants crisp. “You have developed comedic timing.”
That just makes me laugh harder. I know it’s the trauma and the terror and the complete hopelessness of the situation manifesting in laughter—because oh my God, Stas Dubinsky and I are being held captive by a criminal organization. But also? That was fucking funny.
Soon, the salads are cleared and plates filled with fragrant risotto and braised beef are brought out.
“So,” I say. “What’s your theory?”
“Elio is using us to blackmail people,” Stas says resignedly. “Since you’re here, I assume that means my uncle has continued evading him and Elio is now putting pressure on Wes.”
The food sits heavy in my stomach. “Putting pressure on Wes to do what?”
“I haven’t seen the news in a while,” Stas says. “But I have a feeling it has to do with the sanctions Druvia wants the UN to put on China.”
I knew Druvia’s timing with their announcement earlier this summer couldn’t have been a coincidence. “So Elio is distributing Reverie.”
“Among other things. But his time is almost up,” Stas says. “Interpol may be slow, but they aren’t incompetent. Elio must be feeling desperate. That’s why you’re here.”
“No more talking,” the man beside Stas says, his voice low and gravelly.
My eyes meet Stas’s—and the smile he gives me is one I recognize.
He trots it out once a year, stunning the entire world.
It’s not just shockingly beautiful, but confident. Steady.
Victorious.