Chapter 14
MADISON
The bruise on Alessia’s cheek has grown dark and angry. I imagine my matching bruise is close to the same color.
We sit on the floor in the motel room. The whole place is shitty, with furniture that has probably been here since the early nineties.
The maroon and forest green bedspread has a nineties feel, too.
Water stains have left yellow splotches on the ceiling, and the shag carpet beneath me has a crunchy texture.
This place is a physical representation of misery.
Francesco paces in front of the window, muttering to himself.
I’m afraid to talk to Alessia, but we need to figure something out.
Nobody knows where we are. Probably nobody even knows we’re missing yet.
I had no plans this evening. Damiano didn’t know I was on my way to his building—I’d foolishly hoped to surprise him.
I don’t think Francesco planned on having me here. He keeps sending me dark looks. His eyes soften when he focuses on Alessia, though.
She and I both tense up when he stops his pacing and moves toward us. He squats in front of us, his dark eyes locked on Alessia’s.
“It is good we are back together, no?” He strokes her unbruised cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We will return to our home. We will make a family, just as we planned.”
“Sì, Francesco.” Her watery smile is unconvincing, but he smiles back anyway. She takes a shaky breath. “A family.”
What a fucking nightmare—imagine trying to raise kids with an abusive, crazy asshole like this guy. She’d have to keep herself and the kids safe. The daily violence those babies would be subjected to...the idea is horrific.
“A family sounds wonderful,” I lie, even though nobody asked me. “You’ll need to be very healthy to have a healthy baby, though.”
Alessia sends me a what-the-fuck look.
“Our family is none of your business.” Francesco’s voice holds warning.
I want to argue that he made it my business when he shoved me into his car with Alessia, but I know better to argue with him.
“It’s just...we need something to drink,” I say. “Please. And something to eat. Maybe...maybe some ice packs? My face hurts. Alessia’s probably does, too.”
He stares down at us. “I am so sorry, I was not thinking clearly. Please do not make me hurt you again. Yes. I will fetch ice. Food. What do you say, Alessia?”
She sounds on the verge of tears. “Sì, grazie.”
She doesn’t meet his gaze, but I do. And I can see the crazy, lovesick abuser in his eyes.
“I must tie you both again. This way you do not get silly ideas and make me hurt you.” His breath wafts over my face, noxious.
He puts my hands together and tightens a zip tie around my wrists.
I try not to recoil from his touch, but it’s difficult.
Once he finishes with my wrists, he does the same to Alessia.
Then he gets a third zip tie and connects our wrists together.
He maneuvers us around so he can attach the zip ties to the foot of the dresser.
We are well and truly stuck here.
“Goodbye, sweet principesse.” He kisses Alessia’s forehead. Before I comprehend what he’s doing, he kisses my forehead, too.
I can’t help my shudder, but he’s already moving to the door.
“Do not move, do not call for help.” He turns to stare at us, the light beyond the door turning him into a silhouette. “Do not make me hurt you again.”
And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut after him.
Alessia lets out a shaky breath. “I am very sorry.”
I can only nod. It isn’t okay. However, she isn’t the person responsible for this mess—Francesco is.
“We need to cut these ties,” I say. “Do you see anything that might work?”
“No, we can’t—he’ll find out and he’ll hurt us.” Alessia shakes her head to emphasize her point. “You don’t know this man. He—he nearly killed me before. Why do you think I’m trying to make Damiano love me again? It’s only with his full protection that I’ll be safe.”
“Alessia.” I take a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Alessia, Francesco will try to kill you again, and me, too. If we stay here, that’s what will happen. Maybe not immediately, but eventually.”
“I know, but at least we won’t die now, today.”
I’d rather die now than live forever with this asshole. I wish I could make Alessia listen.
I wedge my elbow into the dresser’s drawer handle just enough to tug the drawer open.
There’s nothing inside, no conveniently placed utility knife or scissors.
It’s the same with the other two drawers. Fuck.
I turn my attention to the dresser itself. Maybe Alessia and I can lift it enough to tug the zip tie out from beneath the leg. We’d still be tied, and stuck together, but at least we could leave the motel room.
She realizes what I’m thinking. “No, no. We must stay here. We’ll be safe.”
“We haven’t been safe since the Nove parking garage. Alessia, listen to me. If we stay with him, we will die. If we try to get away, at least we have a chance.”
I feel like I’m in an episode of Night Walkers, trying to rally the terrified child to jump over the cliff and into the river to escape the horde. I just want to shake her and scream.
“Help me,” I say. “I’m not staying here to let him kill me. He’s only hit me so far, but maybe he’ll choke me next. Or shoot me. He’s unpredictable, Alessia, you know this.”
Tears run down her cheeks, but she joins her hands with mine as we attempt to lift the dresser.
But it’s too heavy.
“Did it lift up, even a little?” Alessia pants from the effort.
“Maybe…let’s try again.”
My muscles strain and the corner of the dresser cuts into my palms as we try to lift.
I don’t think it even budged. They made furniture a lot heavier and sturdier in the nineties, apparently.
“Don’t give up,” I say to Alessia. “We can’t give up.”
“I won’t—I’m with you.” A new determination fills her voice. “We’ll get out of here.”
* * *
SETH
Damiano takes the corners too fast. I don’t say a word against him. He used to race, back in Italy, so he knows how to handle a vehicle.
And we need to get to Fair Heights fast.
“Nearly there,” he says.
I know, because I’ve barely glanced away from the navigation screen since we got in the car.
By some unspoken agreement, we haven’t notified the police. We’ve had too many negative outcomes when involving local law enforcement. The fact is, we’re better trained for high stakes, high combat situations.
Eyes locked on the navigation screen, I say, “We really think this is Francesco, right?”
He sends me a quick, questioning look. “Who else would it be?”
“Someone from Point Ops, fucking with us.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them. Erich Pointer is a mean bastard.
But Alessia has been talking about Francesco for weeks.
With her missing as well, I believe it’s him.
” He glares at the road in front of us. “The good news is, Francesco isn’t a professional.
He was smart to avoid the cameras inside the garage, but he forgot about the ones exiting.
And he was an idiot for taking Madison.”
“He’s a dead man,” I mutter. “Fucking dead.”
Not that I’ll go out of my way to kill him, tempting as the thought is. More that I won’t go out of my way to keep him alive. He’s an abuser and a stalker. He’s dangerous to women.
We don’t have any weapons save the utility knife Damiano keeps in his glove compartment. I take it out and tuck it into my pocket. Hopefully we won’t need it, but it doesn’t hurt to have, just in case.
We pull into the motel parking lot. It’s gravel, surrounded by sickly cypress trees. The motel itself looks like it’s held together by little more than a faint wish to do as little upkeep as possible while keeping the place from crumbling to the ground.
There are two other vehicles in the parking lot—a semi-truck and a tiny, red sedan. No white SUV.
If he already checked out and took the women somewhere else, we’re fucked.
Damiano strides to a sad, gray door marked “Office.” I hurry to follow him.
“Francesco Colombo,” Damiano says to the slender, twenty-something guy behind the counter. “Which room is his?”
“Even if we had a guest by that name, I’m not able to give out that information,” the guy says with a practiced air of boredom.
I can tell he isn’t bored, though—this is the most interesting thing to happen to him in days.
“A tall guy, goatee. Hazel eyes.” I reach into my coat pocket for my wallet and find a hundred-dollar bill. “Whatever name he gave you, we know he stayed here. We need to know if he’s still here, and which room is his. This information will save lives.”
The desk clerk is intrigued. Whether by the drama involved in saving lives, or the corner of the hundred peeking out of my wallet.
“No one has to know you told us anything,” I add. “We could just watch from the parking lot and wait for him to come back. But there are lives at stake.”
“Room Eight.” The guy holds out his palm for a handshake.
I pass him the money before following after Damiano, who has already made his way outside.
Room Eight looks the same as the other doors on either side of it. Faded paint, worse for wear, smudges along the edge, scuffs at the bottom where people have held it open. The curtains are closed, but so are most of the others. Probably wise, as the only view is this sad parking lot.
Damiano presses his ear to the door and listens. At my questioning look, he shakes his head.
I debate whether calling through the door would be better or worse. If Francesco is in there, it would be worse.
Better to go in by surprise and by force. I take a step back, raise my leg, and kick in the door.
Two women scream in fear.
Madison and Alessia kneel on the floor next to a dresser. Their faces transform from terror to relief when they see Damiano and me rushing in. They wear matching bruises on their faces and their wrists are tied together with plastic zip ties.
“Seth,” Madison whispers. “Thank god. But we have to hurry—he just went out for food, he’ll be back any second.”
With Damiano’s utility knife, I cut through their ties, freeing their hands. Alessia gets free first, and rushes to Damiano.
“Come on, let’s go.” I start to help Madison to her feet when a large man—Francesco—appears in the doorway.
Alessia screams.
Before Damiano can react, Francesco punches him in the face, knocking him backward.