Lib Novel Page 10
Nothing can go wrong.
Chapter 3
Present day
Sicily
I stare at the blond guy behind the wheel. He’s settled back in his seat, an elbow casually draped through the open window while he steers his souped-up ride over roads that see more sheep crossings than vehicle traffic. Meanwhile, dickhead one is flanking me in the back seat, the pissed-off vibes rolling off him in droves, and dickhead number two is obnoxiously gloating after calling shotgun. I can’t believe these bastards dragged me to damn Sicily!
How long is the flight to Italy? Mom and Dad probably already know that something’s happened and are looking for me. God, I hope they find me soon.
“I need your name,” blondie—my kidnappers called him Guido—says.
Yup, they have no idea who I am. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
“And I need you to let me go,” I mumble. “What do you want from me?”
“Me, personally? Nothing. You’ll have to discuss the rest with my brother.”
“And where is said brother?”
He ignores me for a moment while easing the car to a stop. Then, he pivots toward the back and lifts his phone, snapping a shot of my face before I can even protest.
“He should be home in a few hours,” Guido finally responds. His eyes bounce between the two goons with half a brain between them. “Take her to the basement. Give her food and water.”
Vinny exits the car, pulling me out after him. I cry out, trying to shrug him off without much luck. Hank grabs my other arm, and both proceed to tow me toward the entrance of the huge sandstone villa. The only thing I manage to catch before I’m hauled inside is that the house is located on a hillside, overlooking the sea.
The interior screams opulence, but it’s that understated luxury that’s hard to miss. Not gaudy and in-your-face flashy, but homey—comfort etched into every room and amenity we pass. The ceilings are high, crisscrossed with thick wooden beams. The stucco detailing on the walls reminds me of photos from Architectural Digest or other interior design magazines. Sunlight streams through the massive French windows that open to the shimmering waters beyond, bathing the pale wood furniture. My steps falter for a moment, and I can’t help but draw in a deep breath, taking in the view.
“Move!” Vinny barks, tugging me away from the beautiful sight and to the left of the main doors, toward stairs that must lead to the lower level.
I dig my heels into the floor, trying to resist or at least slow the brute down. Pain shoots through my wrists when he yanks on the handcuffs’ chain again, making me cry out as he nearly drags me down the steps to the sturdy-looking wooden door at the bottom.
“Stop whimpering.” He opens the door and pushes me inside the spacious but dim, cool room. A slight earthy scent hangs in the air.
I fall to my knees and manage to brace my palms on the frigid tiled floor, barely avoiding hitting my face on the surface.
“And because you were a bitch—no food or water!”
I scramble to my feet and rush toward the door, but it snaps shut just before I reach it. The panic I’ve been trying to keep at bay pushes its way through my restraint, sweeping through me like a tempest. I grab the knob, finding it locked.
“Let me out!” I bang on the barrier with my fists. “You sleazy motherfuckers! You’re going to pay for this! Let me out!” My hands hurt from the continuous blows on solid wood, and even though I know it’s in vain, I keep doing it.
I’m not certain how long I keep up my assault on that damn basement door. By the time I relent, the scant light coming from the narrow horizontal windows cut high into the walls has changed to a dusky orange. I press my back to the door and let my body slide down to the floor.
Despite being mostly underground, the temperature is relatively comfortable in the room, but my legs are shaking as if I’ve been plunged into the dead of winter. My arms, too. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, but it doesn’t work. Soon enough, my whole body is racked by tremors like I’m running a fever. My bravado is gone, and all I want to do is curl into a ball and cry.
What the hell do these people want from me? To punish me for hacking into their damn company? I don’t even know which one it is. Why not kill me right away? Why drag me all the way here, across the ocean, just to throw me into some basement? Unless “the brother” wants to kill me himself?
Another shudder passes through me. These are not some regular businessmen, of that I’m certain. Corporate CEOs don’t kidnap people. Only people in my father’s world do. And as far as I know, Sicily is run by Cosa Nostra. Bratva has no beef with any of the factions of the Italian Mafia. Maybe I should have told them who I am, who my father is. Now, I may very well end up dead before I ever get the chance to do so.
I look around, searching for something . . . I’m not sure what. Anything. There are a few empty crates in one corner. An old chair in the other, with dark stains on the weathered wood as well as on the floor directly below. I don’t want to think about what made those stains. Another chair close by, one that’s in slightly better shape.
My focus shifts to the windows. Maybe they’re my way out? That hope is dashed as soon as I spot ornate bars on the outside of the glass. Although there are light fixtures on the ceiling, I don’t see a switch anywhere. Must be on the other side of the door.
I get up to approach a small sink near the entryway and drink directly from the tap. The two assholes gave me water and some crackers on the plane, but that was hours ago. My stomach picks that moment to twist itself into a cramp. When was my last full meal? Lunch, before they snatched me? I’ve been feeling lightheaded for the past hour from the lack of food and wearing myself out. All my energy is depleted, and every muscle aches like the last time I was sick with the flu. It feels as if my body is slowly shutting down, and I’m getting drowsy. But, there’s no way I’m letting myself faint. I push away from the wall and head across the room.
The only other thing in this space is a massive shelf covering an entire wall. Hundreds of wine bottles are stashed on their sides inside their cubbyholes. I’ve been locked in a damn cellar. How rustic, and somehow completely befitting the country-style decor I glimpsed upstairs. Approaching the assortment, I pick up one of the bottles. The black label with silver lettering proclaims it to be a thirty-year-old red wine. Must be expensive shit. Such a shame.