Chapter 6 #2
They come and go at all hours in unmarked black vehicles. Always with their skeleton masks on, which makes it exceedingly difficult to tell them apart.
Except for the huge one who’s as big as a Mack truck.
Could they be Cosa Nostra? Greg is connected to the Ferreras through business arrangements and some stock investments.
Anyone with half a brain knows the Ferreras have their dirty fingers in everything.
Drugs. Money laundering. Human trafficking.
The Italians aren’t exactly choosy as far as crime is concerned. Is it possible I’m collateral for some debt his trifling ass couldn’t pay?
My mind goes to the man who visited me, the one who’s so obviously the boss. He called me a bargaining chip as if I’m a poker chip he intends to cash in at the right moment.
He didn’t come across as Italian. He didn’t have any kind of discernible accent or characteristics that revealed anything either.
The only thing that did stick out to me was the lion’s head tattooed on his left forearm. It’s an illustration I’ve seen before. I just don’t remember where.
He couldn’t be Bratva, could he?
Pretty sure I’d be able to pick up on it if he was.
I’ve had some experience with them. Dad once needed their assistance when he was waist deep in some dirty backdoor deal and needed help getting out of it. They helped for a generous payday.
He never told me the details, but as I comb over everything, I can’t help wondering if it’s his fault.
Did Dad land himself in more trouble and now these men have bought me to leverage against him?
He has to know I’m missing by now, right?
Ummm, maybe.
Dad tends to be preoccupied with himself and his political career ninety-nine percent of the time.
But Simone and my cousin Monique have to know! They would absolutely notice after a few days of no contact. Hopefully Simone’s roped Ronan into the search for me, and he’s able to flex his Irish mob muscles to find me.
It’s the only seed of hope I have, and I cling to it like a lifeline.
It’s not as if I still have Greg to depend on. He’s the one who got me into this mess in the first place, with his stupid face and laughably bad hair transplant (that I pretended not to notice, by the way).
The audacity of that man makes me vibrate with anger.
You know what? If I had that Russian hitman’s business card right now—the Koschei contact I gave Simone—I would absolutely use it on his ass.
I’d have his kneecaps shattered and body dumped somewhere rats could have him for lunch! It would be deserved after what he’s put me through.
I fall asleep to these fantasies, visualizing payback on Greg and envisioning my rescue by Simone and the others.
I’m still curled up on the bed by the time breakfast comes the next morning.
Sorcha again, this time carrying a tray with food other than the soup and concrete bread. Today she’s brought me… more bread but with eggs!
It’s enough to get me sitting up straighter, my brows rising in interest.
“Good morning,” I greet, stretching my arms. “I barely heard you come in. Guess I slept better than I thought on this deluxe springy mattress.”
She says nothing as she sets down the new tray and picks up the one from yesterday.
“Hey, I was going to eat that,” I tease.
Her eyes widen as if startled, then she seems to grasp that I’m kidding. The corner of her mouth twitches, though she still remains silent.
“Um… so… love the haircut,” I say, thinking fast. “I was considering going shorter for the summer. Right now I’ve got my vacation braids in, but I wanted something different next season. Yours is so chic. Very 1990s Halle Berry.”
“Oh, um… thank you, miss.”
She bows her head, cheeks flushed pink.
“Call me Chantal—or even Chani like my friends do. And thanks for the eggs. Seriously. They look delicious. Way better than the soup situation.”
Except it’s a total lie.
They do not look delicious. They look like something I wouldn’t even feed to my cat, Coco. But flattery will get you everywhere, especially with people who aren’t used to receiving it.
My eyes land on the fork laid down next to the plate on the tray, and my heart does a small skip.
…now that might be helpful.
“So where are you from originally?” I ask casually. “Your accent—I’ve been trying to place it but I can’t figure it out. It sounds so unique.”
She fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, picking at a loose thread, and answers with a vague, “Overseas.”
“Okay, mysterious.” I laugh as I pick up the rock-hard bread and struggle to tear off a piece. “Which part of overseas? Europe? Asia? Antarctica? Sounds like the next place I need to vacation.”
“I… err…” She shakes her head and then mumbles, “I can’t say. But I’ve been in the States almost a year now.”
“That’s cool. I was actually overseas myself until very recently.
” I gesture to the disaster that is my Retrofête.
“The Maldives. That’s where this dress met its tragic and untimely end.
Forty-four-hundred dollars of silk just..
. gone. Vacation went a little sideways, as you can probably tell.
Moral of the story—don’t trust these men. They’re foul as hell.”
The flicker in her eyes as she glances at my damaged dress then back up at my face almost makes me laugh. It’s becoming sooo obvious she wants to chitchat but won’t allow herself to.
“So… um, what about you? You got a special guy in your life? Boyfriend? Husband? Situationship that’s definitely not going anywhere but you keep him around anyway because he lays good pipe?”
The rosiness on her cheeks spreads, migrating to the rest of her oval face.
“Enjoy your meal, miss,” she mutters under her breath.
Then she scurries out of the room. The second she’s gone, I scoop up the fork and force down a few mouthfuls.
Just enough to make it look like I’ve actually eaten before the fork disappears from the tray entirely. I’m not a violent person and Sorcha seems nice enough, but desperate times warrant even more desperate measures.
Which means I’ll do anything to escape.
I’m waiting for the evening visit, counting the hours in order to not lose my mind. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my captivity it’s that I’m fed once in the morning and then again in the evening.
So I have nothing else to do but wait for dinner.
With no phone, TV, books, or magazines, it’s the only way to occupy my brain. I can’t remember the last time I went this long without a shower. The answer would be never, because under any other circumstance, I wouldn’t allow myself to go days.
But if I can just hold on a little longer, maybe the opening will come. My chance for an escape will present itself.
It’s dusk outside when the bedroom door slides open, and I perk up, expecting Sorcha with another tray.
A short, masked man enters in her place, carrying a tray in his stocky arms. He sets it down without a word, not even bothering to glance in my direction as he picks up the old tray.
I’m not sure what comes over me. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s left the door ajar and the fork has emboldened me. But I make a snap decision there’s no turning back from.
Springing off the bed with the fork in hand, I jam it into his forearm to his howl of pain. The tines sink into his skin and remain lodged deep as he tries to pry the fork out.
I’m already dashing for the door, not hanging around long enough to see if he manages to.
The corridor stretches out before me like a creepy gothic maze, but I plunge on with no hesitation. There’s no time to stop and consider directions or what part of the house I’m in. I just need to find an exit—any exit at all—and make it outside.
My shoulder slams into the wall as I round a corner too fast, pain spreading through the bone, but I keep scurrying down the next hall until the staircase appears like a gift from God.
It’s wide and sweeping, once again a callback to this place’s Victorian architecture.
I throw myself down the stairs, hurling down two at a time in my desperation to get the hell out of here.
Once I reach the halfway point, which is the second floor landing (my room is on the third), the front door comes into view.
It’s large and heavy oak, with decorative glass cutouts arranged in an elaborate pattern, evening light pouring through like a promise.
My heart beats faster in anticipation as I close in on the bottom portion of the stairs.
As my foot lands on the last stair it slides on the rug, and suddenly I’m skittering out of control. I’ve lost my balance and go sailing forward, temporarily airborne until I land hard on my stomach.
Ooofff.
The wind leaves my lungs, and I sputter as I roll onto my back and blink back tears from how my chin’s collided with the ground.
It’s all happened so fast I don’t even register the heavy clack of boots until it’s too late.
…until I’m blinking past the tears and looking up at the man standing over me.
It’s the boss, the same masked man who threatened to take my fingers. He stares down at me as if fascinated by what he sees, his head cocked slightly to one side, heat radiating off him like a forest fire.
I’m so shocked, so damn terrified in this moment, that my brain goes blank.
That I can’t think to do anything but blink back up at him and mutter the only word that comes to mind.
“Fuck.”