āSnooping. She went through the desk drawers and cabinets in your office. Even checked under the recliner cushion. Oh, and she found your safe and spent nearly half an hour trying to crack the combination.ā
I feel the corners of my lips tilt upward. āAnd then?ā
āSheās been reorganizing your bookshelves.ā
āWhat?ā
āYeah. She pulled off every book, lined them up on the floor, and then started putting them back on the shelves in a different order. Otto checked on her fifteen minutes ago. She was still at it.ā
āAnd youāre positive she didnāt try to slip away?ā
āAbsolutely.ā
I furrow my eyebrows. āAlright. Keep me posted.ā
The crowd continues to part before me like the Red Sea as I meander between the stands. As usual, sellers are yelling, offering their goods, beckoning passersby to approach. A young woman to my left holds a wooden board laden with small pieces of cut cheese and cured meats, inviting customers to taste the samples.
āSignore?ā she calls after me. āVuole provare del prosciutto?ā
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 Vasilisaās 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. Iāve 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 themāas orderedāit doesnāt mean they wonāt see her. And having my feisty princess dressed in my shirt is a big enough sign that sheās off-limits.
As Iām 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 whoās dealing with a customer. Off in the corner, there is a small bowl with a few green figs in it. I didnāt 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, Ćmile Zolaās 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 Rafaelās office and reorganized the books again, in alphabetical order by authorās name this time.
Reorganizing things is something I do when Iām stressed. It gives me a sense of control, even if itās over something mundane and meaningless. And currently, nothing in my life feels like itās 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 Iām even worse off after moving all those tomes around. Twice.
There was no useful information whatsoever in the papers I found on Rafaelās desk. I came across something that looked like a lease to a warehouse in the name of the company I hackedāDelta Securityāwhich 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 couldnāt decipher since they were in Italian.
But I did discover a safe that spiked my hopes behind one of the paintings. I couldnāt 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.
Itās 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. Iād 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 Rafaelās 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 hasnāt actually threatened me directly. My family, yes. But not me. There were zero mentions of physical harmāno beatings, chopping off of fingers, or threats of death if I didnāt 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 Rafaelās office.
Just like earlier, the house appears completely abandoned. No creatures stir as I pass by beautifully decorated rooms. Itās eerie as fuck, yet I canāt 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 mansionās 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, itās 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. Thereās 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. Canāt blame her if she did. I doubt itās normal behavior for a hostage to sort her captorās books instead of trying to find a way to escape. But running is not an option for me. Iām certain Rafael was serious when he threatened to kill my family if I tried to get away. I could hear itācrystal-clearāin the tone of his voice.
He also said no one will bother me here, which has proved true so far. With that, Iām daring to believe that heāll let me go after I fix the mess Iāve made. Iām 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 āhis tyrannical assā would appear already. Itās ten in the evening! Goddammit.
Iām 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 donāt 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.
āNice of you to finally show up!ā I call after him.
He stops and slowly turns to face me. Even though heās shrouded by shadows since the upper floorās lights are off, I know heās looking right at me. I know it instinctivelyālike a prey that can sense a predatorās deathly focus, realizing too late that some fates are impossible to escape.
āEager to start fixing your handiwork?ā His low, throaty voice fills the space between us.
āExtremely.ā
āGo get my laptop from Guido. Iāll be waiting for you in my office.ā
I watch his retreating form as he disappears around the corner, then curse and head toward the east wing, to what Iāve discovered is his brotherās apartment.
* * *
āThis is a mess,ā I mumble, staring at the laptop screen. Getting rid of the code I changed took less than ten minutes, but the catastrophe of missing strings and wrong commands Iām looking at canāt be the result of that. āIt didnāt look like this the last time I visited your network.ā
āVisited? Nice euphemism for breaking the law by hacking into an unauthorized system, Miss Petrova. My company isnāt a gallery exhibit.ā
I look beyond the screen, my eyes focusing on his imposing frame leaning back in the recliner on the far side of the room. Other than the small desk lamp beside me, every light in the office is off. The faint glow that does reach him allows me to see that heās in a three-piece suit again, but little of anything else.
āSays the guy who kidnaps women off the street,ā I comment, then go back to inspecting the code.
Rafael was already lounging on that chair when I came in carrying the laptop. In his gruff voice, he told me to take a seat at the desk and get started. Since then, heās remained nothing more than a dark shape. Silent, for the most part.
Is he brooding?
Planning my demise? Watching me?
What is he hiding?
āDo you have rabies, Rafael?ā