“You’re free to roam around the house and go outside on the patio, but please don’t try to run away. The property is surrounded by an electric fence, and cameras monitor the grounds. The security staff are authorized to shoot if they find you trying to escape. Rafael will come to see you later today to discuss your situation.”
“My situation?” Eyes flaring, I can’t believe he has the gall to make that remark.
“Exactly. It would be to your benefit to behave until my brother returns.”
“Your brother? So he’s in charge around here? I assume he’s the one who ordered me kidnapped?”
“Yes. Yes. And yes, again.”
“Then, kindly relay this to your brother.” I fist my hands and march across the room until I’m standing right in front of this arrogant pissant. “When my father finds out about this, he’s going to chop both of you into tiny little pieces. And then, he’ll throw those to our dogs. I’m going to enjoy watching them feast on your flesh while I drink margaritas and relish the sound of your intestines being chewed to bits. After, I’ll happily wait until the pooches shit out your digested remains.”
Guido’s lips widen into a lopsided smile. “Thank you for such a detailed explanation, Miss Petrova. I’ll be downstairs if you happen to need anything.”
I gape at his back as he leaves the room and shuts the enormous door behind him.
The bastards found out who I am. Or, more importantly, who my dad is. Well, no wonder I got upgraded from the basement to this lavish bedroom. I’m certain the “high-and-mighty Rafael” is currently quaking in his boots, trying to find a way to fix his fuckup. I can’t wait to see all these assholes on their knees, begging for their lives—in vain.
I reach out and snatch a pastry off the plate, letting the sweetness of the flaky buttery dough and custard dissolve on my tongue. As I’m chewing, I approach the first of two doors on the left side of the room. It opens to a huge office space. The decor is all dark colors, with more bookshelves along the walls. On the far side, an oversized recliner and an occasional table are set on another thick area rug. But toward the front, a massive desk faces the opened French doors that lead to a balcony.
Hurriedly chewing on the croissant, I rush toward the desk, hoping to find a phone or a laptop, anything really, that would let me contact my family. I come up empty. The blond guy—what the hell was his name? Guido?—said I’m free to roam through the house, and I intend to do just that. Just as soon as I go to the bathroom, because my bladder is about to burst. I head back into the bedroom and straight toward the door I’ve yet to explore.
As I’m drying my hands and planning on returning to the office to search it again, my eyes fall on the enormous bathtub. It’s one of those vintage claw-foot tubs, big enough to fit at least three people.
I throw a look at the mirror, eyeing my reflection. Dreadful doesn’t even come close to describing my current appearance. My hair is tangled, my shirt and pants are filthy, and I have dirt smeared all over my face.
Lovely.
I’m betting the bossy Rafael probably already called my dad, which means he and Mom are on their way here to come get me. If they see me looking this ragged, God knows what they’ll think happened to me. Mom will cry. Dad will lose his ever-loving shit. Likely before I get the chance to tell them I’m fine.
It would be better to clean myself up before the ’rents arrive.
I fill the tub, then take off my clothes and submerge in the warm water, letting the images of my kidnappers writhing in pain on the ground crowd my mind. Although I haven’t yet met Rafael, I picture him looking similar to his brother. Blond hair cut close to the scalp, green eyes, an athletic build, but more lean than muscular.
Oh, I can’t wait to see them all pay.
I surge back up and search for a shower gel. There’s only one option, and a bottle of shampoo next to it. Both with that distinct manly scent. I guess I’m staying in Guido’s room, using his toiletries. I squeeze a hefty amount of the body wash onto my palm and continue cleaning myself while the crickets’ chirping carries inside through the open window overlooking the garden.
Only after I’m bathed and dried, do I realize that I don’t have a change of clothes. Holding the fluffy brown towel tightly around me, I tiptoe out of the bathroom directly to the walk-in closet I spied while snooping. There have to be T-shirts and shorts in there. I can’t say I find the idea of wearing Guido’s clothes appealing, but it’s either that or my soiled outfit.
The door to the walk-in opens soundlessly. Several small pod lights flick on, revealing the huge interior and its contents.
Suits. Dozens of them line the rack on my right. Black. Gunmetal gray. Charcoal. I lightly glide my fingers over the exquisite fabrics. I’ve always found men in suits hot. Maybe because of the serious air that seems to engulf a man dressed in a fine suit. There’s always something commanding about his presence. Potent. Seductive.
A few months back, there was a party at Don Rossi’s house, with a specific dress code for the evening. Long elegant gowns for women. And of course, suits for men. My ovaries nearly imploded just from the sight alone. Unfortunately, my excitement was short-lived. At Yulia’s insistence, I wore her body-hugging black gown with a high slit on the side. My sister also did my makeup. Every man who approached me ended up either staring at my face or my boobs and mumbled nonsense. A few who managed intelligent words, quickly turned whatever meaningful conversation we were having into something they thought would make me fall into their bed.
An almost identical script, with very few minor variations. Do you know you’re the most beautiful woman in the room? Or, You look like an angel who descended from the heavens. And my absolute favorite: Marry me. We’ll make such beautiful babies. Really, dude? And my sister wonders why I don’t go to parties more often.
There is absolutely no worse feeling than chatting with a guy you’re beginning to like and realizing he doesn’t actually give a fuck who you are, what your interests are, or even what you’re talking about. It makes me feel so . . . hollow. Like I’m nothing more than my looks.
I’m a person, damn it! Not just a shiny trinket to play with.
I have thoughts and feelings, and if any of them bothered to ask, I’m actually capable of getting things done. Things where being a female has no bearing.
Maybe, one day, I’ll meet a man who’ll like me for who I am on the inside, and won’t simply be enamored with my exterior. And who won’t hightail it when he meets my dad.
Maybe, he’ll be a suit guy.
I let go of the lapel on the light-gray jacket I’ve been fondling and move over to the shirts. Guido, with his laid-back attitude and washed-out jeans, doesn’t strike me as someone who likes to wear suits, but he must, considering the obvious. I have only a vague recollection of last night. The post-adrenaline crash and drowsiness hit me hard, but I remember trying to slash Guido’s throat with a . . . broken bottle. Guess that didn’t work out for me. Then, I was floating. Probably, being carried up the stairs. And there was a rough palm against my cheek. The blondie had to have brought me to his bedroom. That faint scent I smelled when I woke up, I recall inhaling it while I was draped around his neck. Such a shame that a tool like him has such nice taste in clothes and fragrances. I can only hope he wears one of his bespoke suits when Dad kills him.
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?
