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.
My fingers might be trembling as I wrap a corner of my shirt around the neck of the bottle, but my hold on it is strong. I step to the side and slam the premium vintage against the wall. The last remnants of crimson sunlight fall onto the half-broken vessel left in my hand, reflecting magnificently off crystalline edges. My lips quirk at the corners. Uncle Sergei would be proud. Leaning my shoulder on the wall to support my weight, I shuffle to the farthest corner of the room.
I’m pretty certain these scumbags intend to kill me.
But, I’m not going down without a fight.
The wrought iron gate slowly opens, revealing a meandering gravel road through the olive trees. I nod at the guard stationed to the right of the barrier, then nudge my SUV along the pale path lit by my headlights, enjoying the subtle crunch of tiny stones beneath the oversized tires. Guido always nags about gravel damaging the vehicles, insisting we should pave the long lane through the estate. Today’s youth seems to be inclined to upgrade every single thing, even when there’s no actual need for it. I had more than enough asphalt and concrete to last me a lifetime during those fifteen years we lived in the States.
The road gradually widens, transforming into a driveway in front of my house. Two guys from my Chicago division—Vinny and Hank—are standing by the front door, their backs ramrod straight while their eyes follow my car as I park. I wonder how long they’ve been waiting there, doing good imitations of dumb posts. I would have preferred to send one of my top guys to snatch the damn hacker who’s been the source of my annoyance for months, but time and logistics were against me. Since most of our merc ops have focused on Europe in the last few years, the best of my men are scattered across the old continent. Hank and Vinny are on my payroll as bodyguards for the legitimate side—my front company—providing private security. They are capable, but neither is overly bright. I was actually pleasantly surprised that they were able to catch the culprit.
“You have my hacker?” I ask as I get out of the driver’s seat.
“Yes.” Hank nods. “Safe and sound in the wine cellar.”
I take in his charred suit jacket, screaming-red face, and missing eyebrow, then turn to Vinny who’s got a bruise on his chin and an angry scrape under his left eye.
“I see he resisted,” I say as I reach into my jacket to take out my gun.
Hank clasps his hands behind him, fidgeting. “She.”
My hand stills on the gun handle. “What?”
“She resisted. It’s . . . it’s a woman, boss.”
“A woman? Must be a formidable one. Does she breathe fire, as well?” I shake my head and step inside the house, heading toward the stairs leading to the cellar.
The basement door opens with the tiniest screech. Inside, it’s chilly and dark, with only slivers of moonlight and the faint ambient glow from the garden coming through the two narrow windows set high on the opposite wall. For a moment, I don’t think anyone’s here. The space seems empty. I’m about to raise shit over a missing captive when my eyes fall on a petite female figure huddled in the corner. My fire-breathing guest is sitting on the floor with her face pressed to her knees.
I had no idea that my hacker was a woman. If I’d known, I would’ve had her brought to one of the guest rooms upstairs. There’s no reason to deny her comfort while she waits to face me and her eventual demise.
With my fingers hovering over the light switch just outside the room, I stop myself from flicking it on. This woman must be scared. Seeing me would terrify her even more. That would lead to screaming and hysterics, which would transform into crying and pleas for her life. And I’m not in the fucking mood. I just need her to tell me who ordered her to fuck with my business before I quickly and painlessly snap her neck.
Leaving the overhead lighting off, I approach and crouch in front of the girl. With my back to the gaping basement door and the lit-up stairwell beyond, I know my face remains in shadow while the soft glow stretches ahead of me to dimly illuminate the room. My massive frame blocks part of that light, casting its own partial shroud on the tiny heap at my feet.
“Hey.” I reach my hand toward her.
The girl’s head snaps up, and the light from the hallway falls right onto her face. Her very angry, unearthly, beautiful face. For a moment, all I can do is stare at her, my stunned brain cells struggling to process that she’s real. But what strikes me the most is her dark-as-night eyes, glaring at me from beneath impossibly long lashes. I can’t name the expression in them, not with my gray matter turning into a useless mass of jelly, but I’m sure I’ll be picturing those eyes long after her gaze has shifted.
A faint sense of a déjà vu washes over me, as if a long-forgotten memory is clawing its way to the front of my mind. That furious, exasperated look . . . No, I’m a hundred percent certain I’ve never met this woman before.
Too stunned by her beauty, I’m a second too late noticing the broken bottle in her hand. She swipes at me, and I rear back, but not fast enough. Pain explodes in my forearm as a jagged edge shreds through the fabric of my shirt and the skin of my right arm.
“Che cazzo!” I snap and grab her wrists.
The girl cries out, a pain-filled wail. I look down at her handcuffed hands, and rage explodes in my chest. The goddamn stupid cocksuckers didn’t even take the handcuffs off her!
I don’t have a problem killing anyone who dares to fucking cross me—be it a man or a woman—but I draw the line at manhandling defenseless females. Not that this one is missing her stinger. If she left her marks on dumb and dumber upstairs, and with my own blood dripping down my arm as evidence, this spitfire is the furthest thing from helpless. I bet she’s getting ready to deliver her next strike.
Carefully, I take the chunk of the shattered bottle she’s still clutching, then focus on her face again. Her eyelids are half-closed, and her breathing seems shallow.
“Have you eaten?”
“Fuck you,” she mumbles, her voice barely audible.
I take her chin between my fingers and tilt her head up. “I asked you a question. Have. You. Eaten?”
It seems to take some effort, but the girl’s unfocused eyes slowly lift. “Crackers. When I woke up on the plane,” she rasps.
Jesus. That was hours ago and on the back end of a ten-hour flight.
A small whimper leaves her lips, and with her next breath, her head lolls to the side.
Utter stillness.
“Hey.” I lightly tap my fingers on her dirt-smeared cheek, but her body just sags against the wall.
Goddamned shit.
