I glance at the bag and sigh in resignation. “I can’t see anything out there anyway.”
The night becomes even darker as he slips the fabric over my head, and I lean against the windowsill, wishing the world were even remotely fair.
“Stay low, just like that,” Massimo orders.
The vehicle turns on and begins to accelerate. I wonder if the driver has taken off his mask. Maybe. Then again, itisan hour before dawn, so it’s not like anyone is going to see him.
We stop. I’m guessing we’re at an intersection of some kind, probably in the main island village, because I hear a motorcycle rumble past. Then I hear laughter as pedestrians walk somewhere nearby.
I sit straight and slide the bag up to my temples so my face is visible. I try the window control but can’t open it. I bang frantically on the glass, drawing the attention of three women who walk on the sidewalk beneath the streetlights. They look like tourists trying to sober up from an all night party.
“Help!” I yell.
The tourists look at me with curious expressions.
I feel the press of a pistol in my side and I inhale with a hiss. I can’t move. I’m petrified with fear.
The light changes and the driver accelerates past the intersection. He’s not wearing his balaclava anymore after all, but I can’t see his face from my position. Not even in the rearview mirror.
Massimo slides the bag back down over my face and the pistol leaves my ribs. I exhale in relief, but break into a cold sweat and start trembling because I don’t know if the weapon is still pointing at me. Guns can still go off randomly in cars: all it takes is a pothole or dip in the road and your head gets blown off, plastering the back window. Pulp Fiction, anyone?
I hear Massimo shift. I think he’s putting the weapon away. Hope so, anyway. When my head stays on my shoulders, I relax somewhat.
Eventually the vehicle comes to a stop and Massimo removes the bag. I search his hips, looking for signs of a gun, but don’t see one. He seems to understand what I’m doing, because he grins mockingly and makes a fist, extending his index finger and thumb to form a faux pistol. He jabs the index finger into my ribs.
“You mean it was your finger I felt back there?” I ask him incredulously.
His grin deepens and he shrugs. He exits, then goes around to the other side and opens my door.
I step outside. The sun has just risen, so I can see where we are. Looks like another beachside estate. The grapevines in the field have been replaced by orange trees. The borders of the property are hemmed in by hedges of prickly pears.
There’s a kennel in front of the sprawling brick mansion, replete with a pair of mastiffs who are barking a greeting at their masters. I see a guest house, along with two smaller apartments—I’m guessing one is for the caretaker, and another for the temporary workers, if it’s anything like the estates my father owns. The building layout is so similar to the previous location that I wonder if all the Moretti villas are arranged the same way.
The driver has taken to wearing a balaclava again, so I can’t see his face. He waits outside while Massimo escorts me upstairs to my new cage. Here, the bed is a simple queen-sized platform, with only one nightstand and wardrobe, and a hardback chair.
The other kidnapper enters and tosses me a bottled water. Meanwhile Massimo deposits the laundry basket containing the clothes and toiletries into the adjoining bathroom, and then the pair leave without saying a word, locking the door behind them.
I can’t stand the silent treatment. I need to socialize. No phone. No people. I feel like a true prisoner now.
I open the bottled water and sip it thirstily. I seriously didn’t realize how dehydrated I was. Before I know it I’ve finished the entire bottle.
I go to the window and open the shutters. The view of the beach is actually a lot better here. It looks like quite a long, sandy beach, too—a rarity for Ustica, whose shoreline is pocked with rocks, caves and hidden coves. This land must have been expensive as hell. All the better for me—if I manage to get out here I’ll be able to run for miles.
I glance down. Like the previous bedroom, the wall is utterly unclimbable, with no handholds whatsoever. The fall is also unsurvivable. I let the empty plastic bottle drop and watch it plunge to the sand below.
The window is in just the right place to allow the sea breeze inside, and it makes the room a bit chilly. I kind of like it, though—nobody likes sweating in their jeans all day.
I pull the hardback chair next to the window and sit back to enjoy the view, trying to make the best of my situation.
I hear the lock click open, which startles me: I hadn’t expected him back so soon. I glance over my shoulder as the door opens and Massimo enters.
“Got sick of watching me from afar?” I taunt him.
“There are no cameras here,” Massimo tells me. “We didn’t have time to wire this place up.”
I press my lips together, unsure if I should believe him.
He places a bowl of Sicilian arancini on the nightstand next to me. The fantastic flavor wafts up to my nostrils, and I remember I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. Ordinarily I adore those breaded balls of creamy risotto, but refusing to eat is really the only weapon I have at the moment.
