It clearly says London Water on it, though the name is almost totally illegible, maybe having been rubbed off.
“Steve isn’t here?” I ask. The doorman is usually very diligent about escorting people in and out of the building.
“He said to come straight through.”
Well. That’s unlike Steve…
“Please could we enter before the leak gets any worse?” The man’s voice is urgent and authoritative now, with an air of urgency. “Don’t want it to damage your apartment, or for you to get into trouble for not being cooperative.”
Shit, okay. Good point.
I hurry to unlock the door and the safety latch, and as I open the door, I’m tipped backwards by the man shouldering inside.
“Whoa! What?—”
“Shut up, bitch.” He grips my arm painfully and points a gun at my temple, and another man, this one in a suit, barges in after the first, closing the door carefully behind them. “Or you’re dead.”
2
CATERINA
Everything in me turns to ice.
Should I jerk away? He’ll shoot me.
Should I scream?
Shit-shit-shit, I do not know what to do in this situation. Panic claws at my throat as overalls man drags me into the lounge and shoves me onto the couch.
“Don’t fucking try anything,” he snaps.
“Where’s your mother’s money?” the man in the suit asks. He has a gun as well, and the dark barrel is pointed at my chest. His eyes are brown, and his chin is pointy and recessed.
I can’t die and I can’t think. I’m a cube of ice.
“Where is it?”
All I can do is shake my head, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I jump as a glass crashes to the floor, and from the corner of my eye, I see the plumber man trashing my apartment.
“Your mother stole a lot of money from my boss,” the man in the suit says, his tone as level as his arm pointing that gun at me. “And just because twenty-two years have gone by doesn’t mean my boss doesn’t want what he’s owed.”
“You’ve got the wrong person.” But the co-incidence of twenty-two years being my age is sending me into a deeper freeze. My back is on the couch, and there’s nowhere for me to go.
I’m going to die. I haven’t even had a kiss. I haven’t lost my V-card.
“Please, this is a mistake?—”
“Caterina Hart.”
I blanch. Whatever has happened, they know who I am. They are after me.
“We’ll get that money back, one way or another. I suggest you talk. Now.”
“I don’t know anything,” I protest miserably.
Some rapid-fire words are exchanged between the men in a language I don’t speak. Italian, I think? Or could be Portuguese. I’m not sure. I learned French at school because when I said I was considering Italian as an option, my parents freaked out about needing to focus on subjects that would enhance my career.
I’ve never told either of them that I’d rather have babies and stay at home. I’ve worked hard for this degree now, and since the kids-thing would require a man, and I have the social skills of a small cabbage, I’ll make do with a career.
