Chapter Two
Ella
There’s a thumping sound somewhere off in the distance.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I open my heavy eyelids slowly and glance around. Nothing looks familiar.
It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Then again, I have no idea where that is. Other than in someone’s bathroom.
The knocking begins again. Then I hear the handle turn, the door opens, and a girl who looks about nineteen or twenty enters.
Great Ella! You didn’t lock the door.
The girl is slender with the typical Italian olive skin. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a high ponytail. She wears some sort of maid’s uniform, a conservative short-sleeved dress in olive green that reaches her calves. Tennis shoes in the same color complete the outfit.
She carries a heavy-looking tray, which she places on top of the vanity.
I can clearly see her face. That’s careless. Unless whoever is keeping me here has no intention of me ever leaving alive.
The thought is sobering. Frightening, actually.
A boulder of unease weighs me down as I struggle to sit up. Pulling the blanket over my body, I eye the girl suspiciously.
She turns and looks at me nervously. In a heavily accented voice, she introduces herself while staring at the floor.
“Buongiorno. I’m Mariella. Umm… I’m here to give what you need,” she says in broken English so quietly I have to strain to hear her.
“I have colazione… umm, breakfast.” She points to the tray. “I put on table,” she murmurs, then picks the tray back up and flees the bathroom before I can say anything.
From her appearance and the way she speaks, I’m obviously still in Italy. Probably still in Sicily. Well, that clears up at least one of the hundred questions running through my head.
I climb out of the bathtub, open the door a crack, and cautiously peek out into the living area.
Mariella seems to have already disappeared.
Damn. I wanted to grill her for information.
My brain still doesn’t seem to be functioning all that well, but I would have gotten the basics from her. Like where the heck I am and who owns this place.
Later then. I’m sure she’ll be back.
Thankfully, my headache is mostly gone, and my legs feel normal again. But I’m still so tired, and my body feels like it’s weighed down with bricks.
On top of that, my back is stiff. Sleeping in the bathtub wasn’t such a great idea.
I eye the breakfast on the table as I step into the room. I should be hungry, but the thought of eating makes my stomach turn.
What kind of drug did they give me? This can’t be normal.
A yawn escapes me and my eyelids droop.
I need more sleep. Now.
I make my way over to the bed and let myself fall on it.
Oh yes, that’s so much more comfortable.
But despite my tiredness, I’m only dozing. The images from last night flash through my mind again.
Were those men watching me at the cathedral involved in my kidnapping? Would they have attempted it if Tiero hadn’t turned up?
And why did he turn up at that precise moment?
Did he know about them? Was that the reason Alonso wanted to go with me? But he told me I wasn’t in danger.
Did he lie to me?
My list of questions grows the longer I contemplate this.
Argh, I need answers.
What do these people want with me? I’m a nobody.
I don’t understand.
There has to be a reasonable explanation.
But I’m too tired to figure it out. Later, I promise myself. I will work all of this out later.
Despite the questions buzzing around in my head, I let myself go back to sleep. It’s the only place where there are no problems staring me in the face.
I want to stay asleep forever.
I mustn’t have been sleeping for long, because when I wake up and look outside, the sun is still high up in the sky.
The siesta has done wonders for my body and mind. I almost feel back to normal.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten in ages.
The tray Mariella left is still on the table in the sitting area, and I climb off the bed and walk over.
How does she know I haven’t eaten yet? Is someone watching me?
There must be cameras in this room. I scan the ceiling, but other than a smoke alarm, there’s nothing. Perhaps they’re tiny and hidden in things.
Or is this ridiculous? I’m not in a Bond movie.
Whether there are cameras or not, my stomach rumbles loudly and I sit down on the sofa. The food will be cold, but I don’t care.
I lift the lid off the plate and find a perfectly cooked omelet.
My stomach drops. All I can do is stare at it.
Is this a coincidence?
Obviously, omelets are common for breakfast, but with these exact vegetables?
With parsnips, bell pepper, and kale?
I don’t know of anybody but me and my late father who likes parsnips in an omelet.
I lean back, my eyes fixed on the tray. There’s also a teapot.
Isn’t it strange that there’s tea instead of coffee?
Italians love their coffee, and I have yet to come across a tea drinker in this country.
How does Mariella know I don’t prefer an espresso or a cappuccino?
I bounce my leg nervously, debating whether to take the plunge and find out what’s in the teapot. With a jittery hand, I reach for the handle and pour myself a cup.
The scent of licorice fills my nostrils.
That sinking feeling I had when discovering the omelet completely takes over.
Only a few people know what I like for breakfast. The licorice tea in particular is too obscure to just guess.
Who knows about my preferences?
Rhia, her family, my ex-boyfriends, and Oma. But she wouldn’t remember anymore. In Italy, though, it could only be one person.
My chest tightens.
Tiero.
It can’t be him.
Did Tiero kidnap me?
No, that doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t do that.
I refuse to believe that the man I’ve spent the last week with, and who’s touched my heart like no one else ever has, could do something so horrible.
It has to be someone else.
There has to be a different explanation.
Think, Ella. Think.
Mario, the cook from Tiero’s boat, knows what I like for breakfast. So does the rest of the crew. Perhaps it was Rocco who ratted me out to someone. He seemed to disappear into thin air, which would support that theory.
Or perhaps someone else watched me have breakfast since I arrived in Sicily. I ordered it at the hotel, but they said they didn’t have parsnips. There would be a record of that, right?
I get to my feet and pace around the table, my head spinning as I try to analyze the few facts I’ve collected so far.
The longer I think about this, the more I wonder if the signs really do point to Gualtiero De Marco.
No, no, no.
I refuse to believe it was him.
The thought of Tiero putting me through such an ordeal makes me feel sick.
He wouldn’t do this to me. He just wouldn’t.
But then he asked me twice to stay longer, and I insisted I had to go home. He never argued the point, though. He just remained silent each time.
Did he hatch other plans? Plans like kidnapping? Keeping me here against my will?
But then, where is he?
Rome, of course. He’s got business there, I remember now.
I can’t have been so wrong about him.
Vague memories of his goodbye Sunday morning float back into my mind. I was too tired to pay attention. He said something in Italian.
Damn, I wish I spoke the language.
My stomach growls again. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. That’s assuming it’s Monday and I wasn’t unconscious for more than a day. How do I find out?
I stop pacing and force myself to sit down. Picking up a fork, I eye the food with suspicion. What if it’s drugged and knocks me out again?
I lean closer and sniff the omelet carefully. Nothing smells unusual. In fact, even cold it smells so delicious my mouth waters. I have to take the risk. If I want to get out of this mess, I’ll need to keep up my strength.
After the first wary bite, half expecting my throat to close or my mouth to tingle, I devour the food. I’m hungrier than I thought. I sip the tea, and at last my body relaxes a notch.
When I’m finished, I sit back and rub my chin.
Now what?
Will I just wait and see what comes next? Or do I attempt to solve the puzzle of who’s behind this and why?
Once I know the answers to those questions, I can determine my next move. Yes, let’s go with option two. I’m not one to sit around passively.
I step through the still-open glass door onto the balcony. It’s larger than I remember from last night.
I’m hoping to see something I recognize, something that will give me a clue about where I am.
The ocean glitters in the distance. So I was right, I’m most likely still in Sicily.
Vast, lush green gardens stretch before me, all open and well-manicured. There’s the occasional small tree here and there, but they’re not large enough to hide behind. Really, there are no spots to hide anywhere, especially not close to the house.
In the far distance, there’s an enormous wall on both sides of the property, and I spot two guards on patrol with dogs following behind.
Hmm, climbing over those walls undetected is not going to happen.
There’s no sign of any other houses. It looks like we’re in the middle of nowhere. A beautiful nowhere, but it’s doubtful anyone could spot me here and come to my rescue.
I turn around and look at the house itself. I seem to be on the upper floor of a two-story mansion. It’s rendered white with a red-tiled roof. I can tell because one section of the house has no upper floor. At a guess, it’s the living area with very high ceilings.
I like high ceilings. To be honest, from the little I’ve seen so far, this house is beautiful. Beautiful enough that part of me wants to explore it.
God, have I forgotten I’ve been kidnapped?
Now is not the time to play house. Seriously, I need to get my head examined.
I let out a long breath.
What do I do now?