Chapter 3 #2
I try desperately to hide the relief and keep my face neutral, but I'm not sure I succeed. His eyes narrow slightly, like he can read every emotion crossing my features.
"Here is how this works," he says, pulling a folded piece of paper and a pen from his pocket.
"You write a letter to your father. You will tell him you are alive, you are unharmed, and that you will be returned safely in exchange for money.
You sign it, and I will call so he can speak to you, then send it to him.
He pays. You go home." He sets the paper and pen on the dresser, his movements precise and controlled.
"It’s that simple," he adds. "A business transaction. Nothing personal."
I find my voice finally, though it comes out rougher than I'd like. "You're serious."
His lips thin. "Da. Yes. Very serious."
"And you think my father will actually pay?" The question comes out before I can stop it, edged with the slightest bit of defiance. I don’t know where it comes from… maybe it’s just frustration, for him keeping me waiting for so long when he never intended to do anything other than follow through on his original discussion of ransom. "For someone as unimportant as me?"
His eyes lock onto mine, and his eyes narrow slightly.
His gaze sweeps over me, and even though there’s nothing but ice in it, I feel a prickling across my skin.
The way he looks at me, with so much intensity, makes my heart beat a little faster despite myself.
This man seems as though he does nothing halfway. Nothing.
"You are his daughter," he says flatly. "He will pay."
"You don't know my father." Why am I still talking back to him? It’s like I can’t leave well enough alone. Like I can’t help but needle him, try to put him on the back foot the way he’s made me feel all day now. “Maybe he doesn’t give a shit about me.”
The man raises an eyebrow. “You are his only child. I doubt that is the case. But if it is, and he refuses—” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Then it is a good thing that bullets are cheap, and you don’t look like you eat much. I won’t lose much money on you.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Panic threads through me at the casual way he talks about killing me, but I refuse—I fucking refuse—to let him see it. “You wouldn’t kill a woman.”
His expression tightens. “You have no idea who I am.”
I lick my lips nervously as the panic builds. I don’t want to break in front of this man. I don’t want him to see how afraid I am. “You’re right,” I manage. “I don’t. That doesn’t seem fair, does it? I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s unwise. You already know too much.”
I shrug, breathing slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth, still as I try to appear unbothered.
“Well, I know your face, so what’s your name, added to that?
How do you know if you ransom me, I just won’t go to the police afterward?
” Oh my God, shut the fuck up, Liesl. But I can’t seem to stop.
The man doesn’t look amused. His face tightens with irritation, which somehow only serves to make him more handsome. “Then I would kill your entire family. And it would do you no good. I pay the police to leave me alone.”
Well, I guessed that. I take another slow breath. “Well, then I guess I won’t bother. So if I’m either going to die or go home, and if the latter means I can’t possibly snitch on you without my whole family getting killed, then what’s wrong with telling me your name?”
His jaw works, the expression of irritation on his face growing. "Write the letter," he says, his tone final. "If all goes well, you will be home soon."
He turns to leave, and I hear myself say, because apparently I do have a death wish after all, "The gunshots. What were they?"
Curiosity killed the cat.
He pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he looks back at me, and his expression is completely cold. "Business," he says. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The lock engages.
I sit on the bed for a long moment, staring at the paper and pen on the dresser. My hands are still shaking, and I take a deep, slow breath, trying not to lose it now that I’m alone again.
I’m trapped in a mansion with this terrifying, confusingly handsome man, and he says he’s going to ransom me. If that doesn’t work, he’s going to kill me.
So I need to make sure the latter doesn’t happen. All that matters is getting home.
I stand up and walk to the dresser. I pick up the pen and unfold the paper… and realize I have absolutely no idea what to write.
How do you ask your father to pay criminals for your life? I sit at the desk by the window, the blank paper in front of me, the pen in my hand, and my mind completely empty of words.
Dear Dad seems too casual. Dear Father, too formal. To Alexander Baumann too cold, like I'm writing a business letter instead of a ransom note. Which, I suppose, is exactly what this is.
A business letter. A transaction. Nothing personal.
I set the pen down and press my palms against my eyes.
This shouldn't be so hard. It's just a letter, just words on paper.
Just a simple message: I'm alive, I'm being held, they want money, please pay it.
But every time I try to form the sentences in my head, they sound wrong.
Too desperate. Too detached. Too emotional. Not emotional enough.
What would my father want to hear? What would convince him this is real, that I'm really in danger, that he needs to act? I pick up the pen again and write: I've been kidnapped.
I stare at the words. They look absurd on the expensive paper, like something from a movie script. But they're true.
I continue: I'm being held by people who want money in exchange for my safe return.
Too vague. He'll want details. Proof that it's really me writing this.
I cross it out and start again.
Dad,
I don't know how to write this, so I'm just going to be direct. I was taken yesterday afternoon in Manhattan. I'm being held somewhere outside the city—I think—by men who say they'll release me if you pay them. I'm unharmed. They haven't hurt me. But they're serious about the money.
I pause, reading it over. It sounds like me—direct, not too formal, like I’m trying to stay calm. But is it enough? Will he believe it's really from me and not some elaborate scam?
I add: Remember when I was eight, and I broke my arm falling off the swing set at the house in the Hamptons? You told me that Baumanns don't cry, even when it hurts. I didn't cry then, and I'm not crying now. But I need you to do what they're asking.
The memory is specific enough that he'll know it's real… personal enough that it can't be faked. I continue writing: They're going to call you. When they do, please just listen. Please just pay what they're asking. I want to come home.
That last sentence catches in my throat as I write it. I want to come home. It's the most honest thing I've written, the most vulnerable. The closest I've come to admitting how terrified I actually am.
I almost cross it out. But I leave it.
Please, I write. Liesl.
I sign my name at the bottom—my full signature, the one I use on legal documents. Then I set the pen down and read the whole thing over.
It's not perfect. But it's honest. Hopefully, that will be enough that he will pay attention. It could be a while before he realizes I’m missing, unless Isabelle or Giulia gets hold of him. We don’t talk every day…
sometimes not even every week, depending on how busy he is.
But hopefully this will accelerate things.
I fold the paper carefully and set it on the desk. Then I sit back and wait.
The sun has set completely now. The room is dark except for the lamp on the desk and the outdoor lights that come on and allow some of their glow to filter into the room. I wonder what my father is doing right now. Is he at his office, working late? Is he at home, having dinner alone?
I'm still sitting there, staring at the folded letter, when I hear footsteps in the hallway again.
The door opens without warning, and he's there again, filling the doorway with his presence. I stand up automatically, my body responding to the command in his posture even though he hasn't said a word. His eyes go to the letter on the desk. "You finished."
"Yes."
He walks over and picks it up, unfolding it carefully. I watch him read, my heart pounding, wondering what he's thinking. His expression gives nothing away; it remains cold and unfeeling.
When he finishes, he folds it again and slips it into his pocket. Then he pulls out a phone. "Now we call," he says.
My stomach drops. "Now? Right now?"
"Da. He needs to hear your voice so he knows you are alive."
He's already dialing, the numbers clicking as he presses them. I realize with a jolt that he knows my father's private number—the one that's not listed anywhere, the one only family and close business associates have. These people are more connected than I thought.
The phone rings. Once, then twice. Then a voice I know better than almost any other: "Alexander Baumann."
It’s my father. His voice is clipped and professional, slightly annoyed at being interrupted.
The man with the icy eyes holds the phone out to me.
Our eyes meet for a brief second, and I feel that prickling over my skin again, a strange jolt down my spine.
I take the phone, and our fingers brush.
There’s that jolt again, so startling that my heart skips in my chest. He’s standing very close to me, and I can smell the smoky scent of his cologne. He smells fucking delicious.
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I press the phone to my ear. "Dad?"
There’s a moment of silence, and then he speaks. "Liesl?" I hear a tightness in his voice, as if he’s already aware that hearing me at the other end of an unknown number can’t possibly be from anything good. “What is this?”
"It's me.” My voice cracks slightly despite my best efforts. "I'm okay. I'm—"
“What do you mean, you’re okay?” The words come out sharp, demanding. "What happened? Why are you calling me from a different number—”
“I was taken. This morning. I don’t know where I am exactly…”
The man clears his throat, and I bite my lip. “I’m supposed to let you know that I’m alive.”
"Are you hurt?" He cuts me off, his voice rising. "Did they hurt you?"
"No. I'm not hurt. I'm fine, I just—"
"Put them on the phone. Right now. Put whoever's in charge on the phone."
I look up at the man standing in front of me. He's watching me with those ice-chip eyes, his expression unreadable. I hold out the phone.
He takes it, and when he speaks, his voice is calm and cold, just as it’s been every other time I’ve heard him speak. "Mr. Baumann. Your daughter is alive and unharmed. She will remain that way if you follow instructions."
I can hear my father's voice through the phone, loud and furious, but I can't make out the words. The man listens without expression.
"You will receive a letter with details," he says, cutting through whatever my father is saying. "You will have forty-eight hours to arrange payment. When payment is confirmed, your daughter will be released unharmed."
More shouting from my father. Threats, probably. Promises of what he'll do to them, how he'll destroy them, how they've made the biggest mistake of their lives. The man's expression doesn't change. "You have forty-eight hours, Mr. Baumann. I suggest you use them wisely."
He rattles off a phone number—a different one, probably a burner—and then hangs up before my father can respond.
The silence in the room is deafening. He slips the phone back into his pocket and looks at me. I'm still standing there, my hand half-extended where I was holding the phone, my heart racing from hearing my father's voice.
"He will pay," the man says. There’s no question in his voice. I realize, dimly, that I think he’s trying to console me, in some odd way.
I swallow hard. My mouth feels so dry. I still haven’t been given any food or water. "How do you know?"
“They always pay.” He pauses. "And because I heard fear in his voice. Real fear. That is not something you can fake."
The observation surprises me. I wouldn't have expected him to notice or care about something like that.
But then again, he's clearly good at reading people.
You don't get to be in charge of a criminal organization without understanding human nature.
And I suppose it probably has nothing to do with caring. He must know what fear sounds like.
"Get some rest," he says, moving toward the door. "In forty-eight hours, this will be over. You will go home."
"And if he doesn't pay?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
He pauses at the door and looks back at me. For a moment, something flickers in those blue eyes—something I can't quite read."He will pay," he says again. He pauses, studying me for a long moment. “My name is Andrei, by the way.”
Then he's gone. The lock clicks. I'm alone again.
I sink onto the bed, my legs suddenly unsteady. The phone call replays in my mind—my father's voice, and the way he demanded to know if I was hurt. The threats he must have made against my captors. The unintelligible shouting.
He was scared. Really scared. I heard it too, I realize. My father was terrified for me.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. I can't remember the last time I heard that kind of emotion in his voice. It’s a strange thing, but for the first time in a while, I’m reminded that my father really does care about me.
He shows it usually in a monetary way, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Forty-eight hours. Two days. And then, if everything goes according to plan, I'll be home. I should feel relieved… hopeful, even. Instead, I feel unsettled, still afraid, and confused.
Until I’m home, I won’t be able to stop being afraid that for some reason, some unfathomable reason that would make no sense, my father either won’t give them the money, or he’ll give it, and they’ll kill me anyway.
And underneath that, there’s something else, too, a confusion that I know better than to linger on.
The man who has me is a criminal. A bad man, one who would keep a woman captive and let her be afraid for financial gain. But the way it felt when he looked at me…
Andrei. He gave me his name. He tried to reassure me.
I know I’m grasping at straws, at anything to make this better, but I can’t shake the way it felt when his fingers brushed against mine, the strange intensity that seems to crackle in the air between us every time he enters a room. His presence, the shock of it.
I push that thought away. It doesn't matter. In forty-eight hours, this will be over, and I'll go home.
And I'll never see him again.