White. Black. Gray. His button-down shirts are even nicer. I pick a black one (less chance for my boobs to show through the material since I don’t have a bra) and slide it off the hanger. My forehead creases as I hold it out in front of me. What the hell is the size of this thing? It looks gigantic. Glancing at the label, I snort. The number makes absolutely no sense to me. All I can think is it must be the Sicilian way of indicating “tent-size.” Guido didn’t seem that large to me. I check out a few more shirts, but they’re all the same measurement. Maybe blondie lost a lot of weight? No wonder he no longer wears these.
Slipping my arms into the shirt, I peer down at myself. I look just like Mom when she wears one of Dad’s button-downs. The hem literally reaches past my knees, and the sleeves are almost double the length of my arms. At least no one will be able to tell I’m not wearing panties. I fold the sleeves over my forearms (half a dozen times), then grab one of the ties from a drawer and wrap it around my waist as a belt.
Next step—find a way to contact my family and determine when they’re arriving.
* * *
Ten thousand square feet of living space and not a single phone. I’ve even considered trying to use a browser app on a TV, but I didn’t find one in any of the common areas. No other people either, excluding the guards I spied making rounds along the formidable-looking barricade of closely spaced thick metal posts connected by row upon row of smooth cable wiring. That must be the electric fence Guido mentioned, and it seems to encircle the property. I think one of the guards was following me, too, because I felt eyes on me from time to time, but I never saw anyone.
I stumbled upon Guido working on his laptop out on the terrace just off the main living room. When I asked about the “lord of the manor’s” plans for gracing me with his presence, he just shrugged. The boss man is probably hiding in some hole, chewing his nails to the quick while pondering what kind of casket to order for his own funeral.
After that, I went down to a small beach that can only be reached using narrow stone steps cut into the side of the bluff. No one tried to stop me. Maybe because it’s a dead end, with high cliffs on the three sides and an endless sea on the fourth. Zero escape options. I lounged on the warm sand for almost an hour, then returned to the villa and checked out all the rooms again. One set looked like someone’s private living quarters with vastly different décor from the rest of the house—more modern—but some of the doors within were locked. Must be the abode belonging to the “mighty” brother.
Holy shit, there’s more life in the catacombs than in this beautiful but devoid place. After hours of exploring, I did bump into a maid while she was wiping down the kitchen counter, and then again when she carried folded towels up the stairs. But both times, as soon as she saw me, she hightailed it to God knows where.
Continuing to drift aimlessly from room to room, I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Several ready-to-eat packaged entrées are stacked on the shelves. I move mushroom pasta to the side (I tried some of it earlier in the day) and pull out a chicken salad.
I stab a piece of meat, but after a moment, just stick everything back into the fridge. I’m not hungry. I just want to go home, damn it. The round white clock on the wall shows it’s almost eleven in the evening. Why am I still here?
There’s an opened bottle of red wine on the fridge door. I don’t remember seeing it here before. The label is the same as on the bottle I broke in the cellar, and that memory instantly pops into my mind. I pour myself a glass and meander out of the kitchen.
A warm breeze blows my hair as I step out onto the wide terrace overlooking the sea and prop my elbows on the railing. If I weren’t a prisoner here, I’d be enjoying the breathtaking view and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Out in the distance along the coast, several tiny twinkling lights are aglow. Straining my eyes into the darkness, I lean forward, trying to decipher what they are.
“Fishing boats,” a deep male voice rumbles behind me.
I swing around, startled, and the wine splashes everywhere, including all over my borrowed outfit. With no lamps on the terrace, the only illumination is the ambient light spilling from inside the house through the massive French windows and doors. There’s not enough of it, though, to chase away the shadows outside. The figure of a man—a very broad, muscular man—is sitting on the wicker recliner at the patio’s far side. His face is hidden by the darkness, but I can see that he’s wearing dress pants and a button-down, with a vest over the top. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. A length of white bandage is wrapped around his right forearm.
“I got your message.” He lifts the wineglass in his hand and takes a sip. “Very eloquent, Miss Petrova. I especially liked the part about defecating dogs.”
Goose bumps run down my arms from the rich timbre of his voice. It’s hoarse and gruff, but the strong Italian accent makes it sound less gravelly. There isn’t a single soft note in it. With his powerfully built body laid back so casually, I feel like I’m facing an indomitable large feline. One who’s eyeing his next meal. Me.
“Rafael, I presume?” I swallow as I take him in. He doesn’t seem like he’s been quaking in his boots, concerned about his life. “When is my dad arriving?”
“I wasn’t aware that Pakhan Petrov intended to visit Sicily.”
“He’s coming to take me home.” I retreat a step while panic begins to rise from the pit of my stomach. “You told him I’m here.”
“Have I? Why would I do that?”
“Because you know who I am. And because my father is going to kill you if you don’t let me go.”
He takes another sip of the wine. “Who your father is has no bearing on my plans.”
“What . . . plans?” I manage to ask as panic ratchets into terror.
“You will be fixing the mess you created when you intruded into my company’s network system, for starters.”
“I . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about. What system?”
“Please, Miss Petrova, let’s not play dumb. I had my brother complete an extensive background check on you. You studied computer science. Graduated with a bachelor’s degree earlier this month and have been accepted into an advanced software engineering master’s program.” An aura of impending doom descends with his every word. “Was it your father who put you up to this? Got you to breach my company’s firewalls and create back doors to the network? What was your goal? Find your way to my client list?”
“What?” I choke out. “No. My dad had nothing to do with that.”
“So it was you, after all.”
Shit. I look away. “Yes.”
“What was the purpose of your actions?”
“Your IT security is good. It was a challenge to break it. And I was . . . bored.”
“You were bored?” His voice is hushed, but there is a dangerous edge to it now. “I have four people working on identifying whatever malware or shit you downloaded into my systems. What you did has left a clusterfuck that they still haven’t managed to untangle.”
This conversation isn’t going the way I expected. I was sure he’d apologize, then stumble over his feet to send me home as soon as possible. This is the furthest thing from that.
With the wind blowing in my face, hurling my hair into my eyes, I take another step back.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, okay? It’s just a tiny bit of code. I can fix it the moment I get home. Can you please let me go?”
“One’s actions bear consequences, Miss Petrova. That’s how the real world works. Your little game left my company vulnerable to more cyberattacks. So, no, I will not let you go.” He lifts his ankle onto the opposite knee and leans back. “I want to offer you a job.”
“A job?” It comes out as a shrill while I stare at this lunatic. “You had me kidnapped, drugged, flown to another continent, thrown into a goddamned cellar, and now you expect me to work for you?”
“Yes, I think that sums up the situation rather well. I’m offering three million for your services.”
A hysterical laugh escapes me. He’s insane! “You can take your millions and shove them up your ass! I demand to be sent home. Right the fuck now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Rafael takes out his phone and tosses it to me. “Play the video.”
I almost don’t catch the thing.
The still image displays high-rise rooftops. The familiar play control taunts me from the center of the screen. I press the triangle, starting the video.
Sky. Rooftops. The camera pans, focusing on a man in an all-black tactical outfit, lying close to the building’s edge. He’s holding a sniper rifle pointed at something on the ground, his eye is trained on the scope.
The view shifts to the left, zooming in on a top-floor window of the building across the street. Another man with a long-range weapon.
I swallow past the knot in my throat, and my grip on the phone tightens.
The camera moves again, to the sidewalk thirty or so stories below. Then, the angle suddenly changes—the same sidewalk, but now the video is being taken from street level. The shot is of a couple, standing with their backs to the lens. The woman has long black hair, and she’s clutching the man’s forearm in a viselike grip while he holds a phone to his ear. He looks down at the woman and shakes his head, then lowers the phone. They turn around, and rush down the street.
The wineglass slips from my hand and crashes on the stone tiles beneath my bare feet, shards ricocheting everywhere around me.
Mom and Dad.
“You bastard,” I whisper. My lips tremble as I stare at the screen.
“Everyone has a price.” Rafael’s deep voice breaks through my stupor, sounding closer than earlier.
