I try to message Janelle,“driver is weird, send help if I don’t make it to Rome,”but the bubble just spins, unsent. I refresh again. Still nothing.
Now my phone is showing no signal.
I quickly open the voice memo app again and start recording. Just in case. Just in case this isn’t a joke. Just in case this is the real, unfiltered version of my life, the one I never post.
“Hi,” I whisper into the mic, my words barely a rustle. “If you’re hearing this, I’m either being kidnapped or driven to a terrible Airbnb. Possibly both. My name is Nikki Ricci. Please don’t let my last selfie be from that yacht. Also, tell Janelle I’m sorry for being a nightmare, even though she totally deserves it.” My attempt at humor falls flat even to my own ears.
The car slows and the hum of the engine deepens, struggling against something. Then it turns onto a gravel path hidden beneath an archway of thick, ancient trees. The canopy above us grows even denser, blotting out the sun entirely. Trees close in, their branches scraping against the sides of the vehicle, a harsh, grating sound.
I sit up straighter, my body rigid against the leather seat. “Seriously,” I say. “You need to tell me where we are. This isn’t cute anymore. This isn’t funny. This is actually freaking me out. I’m supposed to be in Rome soon.”
No response, not that I expected one at this point.
My chest tightens, a vice squeezing the air from my lungs. The spunk completely shatters now, leaving only raw fear. “Hey! I am not joking. Stop the car. Right now. I said stop the damn car!”
His hand moves. Not to the brake, not to turn to me. To a small switch near the dashboard. A faint click echoes through the quiet car and the car door locks engage.
A heavy, final sound.
I jerk the handle. Nothing happens. It’s locked. My fingers scrabble at it, frantic, useless. Damn, why didn’t I jump out of the car before now?
“No! This is not happening to me.”
I slam my palm against the tinted window, leaving a sweaty print. “LET ME OUT!” The sound seems to be absorbed by the thick glass.
He keeps driving, completely unbothered. I’m background noise, a nuisance. As if I don't exist beyond his obligation to transport me to wherever the hell we’re going.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and unexpected, and I blink hard, willing them away.
I hate this.
I hate that I’m crying.
This is so unlike me. I never cry except on camera. Otherwise, it’s a waste of mascara.
“Please,” I choke out, the word a desperate plea. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t know who you think I am or what you think I’m worth, but I can pay you. I promise. I just need to get to an ATM machine. I’ll get you money or do a brand deal for you for free. Just take me back. Or drop me off right here. I’ll never tell a soul, I swear. I’ll act like this never happened.”
My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. That it sounds scared.
“Please,” I whisper again. “Just let me go.”
We pull into a clearing and suddenly an enormous villa appears. It looks like something from an old movie, but without the glamor. There are men in dark suits waiting, standing perfectly still. One of them steps forward and opens my door.
They don’t say a word. They just look at me, assessing their prey.
My legs won’t move. Every muscle is screaming to run, but I’m frozen in fear. I’m in ridiculously high heels anyway. How far would I get trying to outrun them? Three feet?
“Get out,” the driver says. It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the marina.
I turn to glare at him. “Oh, now you decide to talk? Where the hell am I? What is this place? What do you want?”
He says nothing else. Just looks away, as if I’m no longer his problem, a package delivered.
Bastard.
The man outside doesn’t wait for me to step out. He reaches in, his hand closing around my arm. Not hard, not bruising, but firm.
I try to pull back. “Don’t touch me! I’ll scream. I will post your faces all over the internet! I will ruin you! You have no idea who you’re dealing with, buddy!”
