He lifts a brow, like I’ve asked for a pony instead of my most basic human right.
"You’re not getting your phone," he says simply.
"Excuse me? You can’t justtakeit. That’s theft. It’s mine.”
"You used it to put my operation in jeopardy. That makes itmyphone now."
I fold my arms and tilt my chin, channeling every ounce of righteous influencer rage. "Then wipe it. Do your little hacker thing. But give it back. It’s not just a phone, it’s how I work. How I live."
His voice is maddeningly calm. "It’s how youbroadcast.And until I know you're not going to do it again, it stays far out of reach."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "I’m being punished? No screen time until I learn my lesson?"
He doesn’t even flinch. "You're angry," he says, as if it's a profound revelation.
"I'm furious. I've been kidnapped, and emotionally traumatized, all while being deprived of proper skincare and human rights. So yes, I'm a little annoyed. Just a touch. Not a big deal though. I'm sure I'll be fine."
His eyes flick to mine, cool, measured. Like he's cataloging my emotions for a report, analyzing my data points. He sees everything. And it unnerves me.
"It’s good that you’re angry," he says.
My sarcasm fails me. "Excuse me? Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because it sounds incredibly condescending."
"If you weren't angry," he continues, ignoring my interruption, "I'd assume you were either stupid or complicit. Neither of which would be useful to either one of us."
"Wow. What a glowing endorsement. I feel so seen. So valued. Is there a survey I can fill out later? Five stars for the world-class kidnapping experience."
He finally turns fully to me. There's something profoundly unsettling in the way he looks at me. Like he's dissectingme from the inside out, peeling back layers, searching for weaknesses. It feels invasive, a violation of the deepest kind.
"You're not in danger if you cooperate," he says, a promise and a threat intertwined. "But make no mistake. This isn't optional. Your compliance is required."
"Oh, I figured that out when the locks clicked shut and your driver developed selective hearing," I reply. "I'm not an idiot."
"This could've ended differently," he continues. "You could've remained in your carefully constructed world. But you inserted yourself into something you don't understand."
"I didn't insert anything," I snap. "I filmed myself. On a yacht. Like a normal, narcissistic twenty-something who monetizes her fake life because that's the easiest way to pay her bills. I didn't know what I was recording. And even if I did, I didn't care. You think I want to be part of your crime syndicate drama? Your dark, brooding empire? I'm an American who is only here for a few days, then I'm on to Spain, then Portugal. I don't care what you do in Italy. Truth is, I won't remember half of this trip, or the yacht or even what you look like a month from now. All these places blend together after a while. What I do is a job, just like anything else. It might be a stupid job to you, but it pays my rent."
The silence stretches again, heavier this time. Then he says, his tone softer, almost reflective, a dangerous warmth creeping into his tone. "That might be the first truly honest thing you've said since you arrived here, Nikki Ricci."
"Yeah, well, you kidnapped me, so don't expect tears and confessions right now," I snap, fighting to regain my composure. "I'm not about to share my deepest feelings with my captor."
"I don't need confessions," he says, stepping closer. Too close. The air shifts, crackling with an unspoken tension. He looms over me, a powerful force. "I need silence. From you. And from anyone you might've alerted."
"Then turn off the cameras, if there are any," I challenge, "and let me go. I promise you, I'll never post again. I'll go off grid. I'll join a convent. There's plenty to choose from in Italy. Whatever you want. Just say it and let me go."
"No one's coming for you. Not your assistant or PR agent. They'll move on to the next disposable talent. Not your eight million followers, who'll mourn your absence for a week, perhaps two, before they find a new distraction. They won't even know you're truly missing until it's far too late to matter."
Something in my chest cracks. The carefully constructed wall around my emotions, the one I'd built with years of likes and filters, splinters. I try to hide it, try to push it back.
"You don't know that," I whisper.
He doesn't blink. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting only my own terror. "Yes, I do."
I glare at him. "People are going to notice I'm gone, you know. I don’t just disappear without it making headlines. My team, my followers, they’ll know something’s wrong."
He leans against the wall, casual in the way only a man holding all the power can be. "We’re handling it."
"Handling it?" I echo, every hair on my neck standing up.
