Lib Novel Page 21
“Signore?” she calls after me. “Vuole provare del prosciutto?”
I stop and glance over my shoulder. The girl is lifting the platter toward me, a flirtatious grin dancing across her lips. As soon as she eyes my face, though, she tenses. Her smile disappears, and she quickly looks away. Typical.
Continuing my stroll through the market, my mind turns to my beautiful hostage and how cute she looked wearing my shirt. Before I left this morning, I ordered the maid to throw Vasilisa’s clothes into the trash. I told myself it was punishment for her nerve to fuck with my life, but in truth, I simply enjoyed the primal possessiveness that overcame me when I saw her in my clothes. I wanted her implicitly marked as mine. I’ve never felt anything even remotely similar toward another woman before. With over a dozen men guarding the grounds of my property, even though she might not see them—as ordered—it doesn’t mean they won’t see her. And having my feisty princess dressed in my shirt is a big enough sign that she’s off-limits.
As I’m approaching the end of the market, my eyes fall on a stand with an assortment of local fruit. Peaches, nespole, and strawberries grace the wicker baskets in front of the seller who’s dealing with a customer. Off in the corner, there is a small bowl with a few green figs in it. I didn’t think they were yet in season. I hasten my step and adjust my route so I pass right next to the counter. And slip one of the figs into my pocket.
I place the last book, Émile Zola’s Nana, on the lowest shelf and take a few steps back, observing my work. This morning, I removed all the books and sorted them by color. It took almost four hours. Most of the afternoon, I spent poking around the villa devoid of another living soul. Then, I came back into Rafael’s office and reorganized the books again, in alphabetical order by author’s name this time.
Reorganizing things is something I do when I’m stressed. It gives me a sense of control, even if it’s over something mundane and meaningless. And currently, nothing in my life feels like it’s within my control.
Last night, I barely slept a wink. I spent nearly all of it sitting on the huge bed, wrapped in a blanket and clutching a knife I swiped from the kitchen. Just in case the scumbag got the idea to blackmail me into having sex with him, as well. Only once dawn started breaking did I allow myself to succumb to a couple of hours of restless sleep. I woke up feeling like a wreck, and now I’m even worse off after moving all those tomes around. Twice.
There was no useful information whatsoever in the papers I found on Rafael’s desk. I came across something that looked like a lease to a warehouse in the name of the company I hacked—Delta Security—which I assume is his, but the contract was signed by someone else. Printouts of specifications for some sort of surveillance equipment. And a few random receipts for things I couldn’t decipher since they were in Italian.
But I did discover a safe that spiked my hopes behind one of the paintings. I couldn’t open it, though.
I still know practically nothing about the man who is holding me hostage. Nothing, except his name. And that he likes to read. A lot, based on the volume of books in here. Over nine hundred in total.
It’s the most unusual collection. Classic literature. Philosophy. Finance. Chemistry textbooks. Several tomes on human anatomy, with one in particular focused solely on the cardiovascular system. The twelve-volume set of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Even several books on horticulture and botany. Those really made my eyebrows rise. I’d never have pinned Rafael as a man interested in gardening, but he obviously is, since huge sections within these texts are highlighted, and the hardbacks seem well used.
There are also a few dozen novels. I would love to get lost in a book and alleviate some of my stress through a good story, but most of Rafael’s books are in Italian. The only two I stumbled upon that are in English are murder mysteries, and considering my situation . . . Yeah, no thank you.
Mm-hmm . . . Now that I think about it, Rafael hasn’t actually threatened me directly. My family, yes. But not me. There were zero mentions of physical harm—no beatings, chopping off of fingers, or threats of death if I didn’t do his bidding. Instead, he personally carried me upstairs, treated my wrists, and removed my shoes and socks before tucking me into bed. In his own bedroom, which he seems to have surrendered for my use. All of that after I tried to slice open his throat. I cringe, remembering his bandaged arm. I wounded him in self-defense, but I still feel bad for hurting him.
Rolling up the sleeves that have unwound once again, I pick up the empty plate from the lunch the maid brought me and head out of Rafael’s office.
Just like earlier, the house appears completely abandoned. No creatures stir as I pass by beautifully decorated rooms. It’s eerie as fuck, yet I can’t help but stop every once in a while to admire the rustic elegance of the decor. Even as someone with zero knowledge of interior design, I can clearly see that every piece of furniture and every accent was chosen to complement the mansion’s understated grace.
Every room has enormous French doors or windows that open wide and let in the warmth and intoxicating scents of the Mediterranean, making it feel like the house itself is a part of the natural landscape. Still, it’s an odd sensation to be inside such a gigantic space, entirely alone. Each time the wooden floorboards creak under my bare feet, I startle.
The vast kitchen greets me with haunting silence. There’s no sign of the maid who delivered my meal. The girl seemed utterly terrified as she tiptoed into the office and found me cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of thick hardcovers. She gaped at me for a few moments before leaving the plate on the pile of books and hurrying out as fast as her feet would carry her.
Maybe she thought I was crazy. Can’t blame her if she did. I doubt it’s normal behavior for a hostage to sort her captor’s books instead of trying to find a way to escape. But running is not an option for me. I’m certain Rafael was serious when he threatened to kill my family if I tried to get away. I could hear it—crystal-clear—in the tone of his voice.
He also said no one will bother me here, which has proved true so far. With that, I’m daring to believe that he’ll let me go after I fix the mess I’ve made. I’m still not certain how that actually happened, but whatever. I just want to get on with it and get it done as fast as possible so I can go home.
And I would do that if only “his tyrannical ass” would appear already. It’s ten in the evening! Goddammit.
I’m stuffing cold grilled zucchini into my mouth at the kitchen island when the sound of a car door being shut brings me out of my reverie. I rush toward the window that overlooks the driveway and lean over the sill, catching a glimpse of a huge male shape stepping inside the house.
He is finally back. Rafael. The almighty tsar of this outlandish prison.
Anger and irritation swirl inside my chest as I hurry across the kitchen toward the entrance hall. That son of a bitch spewed his malice, threatened to hurt my family if I don’t do his bidding, but then left me to worry the entire day, rotting in paradise.
When I reach the entry hall, Rafael has already ascended to the second-floor landing.
“Nice of you to finally show up!” I call after him.
He stops and slowly turns to face me. Even though he’s shrouded by shadows since the upper floor’s lights are off, I know he’s looking right at me. I know it instinctively—like a prey that can sense a predator’s deathly focus, realizing too late that some fates are impossible to escape.
“Eager to start fixing your handiwork?” His low, throaty voice fills the space between us.
“Extremely.”
“Go get my laptop from Guido. I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”
I watch his retreating form as he disappears around the corner, then curse and head toward the east wing, to what I’ve discovered is his brother’s apartment.