I watch him return to his car, and when he drives away I use my phone to remotely shut the main gate.
I find Luciano, who’s working out in the weight room. “Dump the Fiat. Some tourists spotted us in the cove.”
“So much for Stefano’s so-called handling of that beach,” Luciano says.
“Apparently he missed clearing out a few campers,” I agree.
Luciano closes his eyes and exhales. “Our first mistake.”
“And our last, I’m sure,” I tell him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “We never thought we’d pull off this operation without a hitch. We’ll handle everything that gets thrown at us. We’ll see this through. We’ll be the victors.”
Luciano nods, but I can tell from his worried expression that he’s still troubled. “I can’t believe we bungled something so simple. After all the planning.”
“It happens,” I tell him.
“The cops are paid off?” he asks.
“For now,” I reply. “But they’ll spill what they know when they get a competing offer from the Amatos, no doubt. We’re going to have to move our captive to a different Incognito.” That’s what we call the villas we own through foreign shell companies, villas that can’t be traced back to us. This particular vineyard is an Incognito as well, but I also use it to interface with the police and conduct other business. The villa I plan to move Angela to is completely unknown to the police and my business associates.
I don’t tell Luciano, but a part of me almost believes this was our second mistake—bringing her here. Then again, if we hadn’t, I would’ve never received the tip from Scalici, as he refuses to do business digitally.
Luciano nods. “We move her tonight?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I answer. “Before first light.”
“I’ll let Rosa know.” She’ll have to come with us, unless she wants to be kidnapped herself.
Frustrated, I retrieve the now cold dinner I had prepared and head upstairs. I’m going to take out my anger on the one person truly to blame for all of this.
6
Angela
I’ve been sitting by the window all day, getting up only to use the toilet, or to stretch my legs, or to drink some water from the tap. While I haven’t eaten, I remember reading somewhere that a person can only last maybe three days without water, and it’s a terrible death, so I force myself to drink. But starving, it’s something that comes easy to me. I never really did have a big appetite, and in the past I’ve often forgotten to eat when I was absorbed by a book or movie, or learning a new song on the piano.
I sigh, thinking about my pianist days. It’s been so long since I’ve even touched a real instrument. Papa sold the baby grand ages ago: said it reminded him too much of Mamma…
It’s dark outside now and I watch the crescent moon shimmer on the ocean waves. I’ve left the room light turned off: I don’t want to be reminded of my prison. I’d rather be surrounded by darkness.
My door bursts open and I turn around as the light flicks on. My well-built kidnapper stands in the doorway, carrying a plate of what looks like risotto. He’s wearing his usual balaclava, but he’s swapped his black outfit for a long-sleeved white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back. His forearms are covered in dark tattoos. For some reason I’m reminded of my Massimo hallucination at the Ippodromo, I guess because in my vision, Massimo had tattoos as well. They were obviously very different than these, however.
The front collar is open in front, and I can see more ink rising up from his chest, complex curlicues reaching for his throat. Even his hands are tattooed, which partially explains why he wore gloves earlier: fewer visuals to identify him with. I have a hunch he got them in prison, because I’ve only ever seen ink like that on a few of my father’s henchmen, guards who did some serious time.
I take a deep breath, preparing to enact my plan, but something seems off about him. He looks angry enough to kill, like one of my father’s Rottweilers left hungry too long. A Rottweiler… I think of the dogs my kidnapper sicced on me, and shiver.
He doesn’t seem to have any weapons though, and there’s no sign of a gun, so there’s that going for me. Maybe I’ll be able to do this after all.
His eyes descend to the uneaten tray of food and he scoops up the pasta plate angrily. He throws it into the hallway behind him and the plate shatters loudly when it hits the floor, making me jump. When he turns his gaze back upon me, his eyes are no longer his own. They’ve been replaced not by a Rottweiler’s, but a wolf’s: icy, blue, and full of hunger. Or rage, one of the two. With him, they seem almost one and the same. The question is, what is he hungry for…
But I already know.
He slams the door behind him and crosses the room in two long strides. He brutally shoves the plate into my face.
“You will eat,” his voice is barely above a whisper, but I can hear the danger in his tone.
I smell the risotto and my mouth waters. Despite myself I reach, trembling, for the plate. But then I snap my hand back as if I’ve been stung.
“No,” I say, my voice coming out a mere squeak. I’m trembling like crazy.
