“It’s the chloroform,” Ignacio explains.
“Or my pregnancy,” I say, spitting out the taste of my vomit.
“You’re pregnant?Felicidades.”
“Who did this?” I ask, tugging at my skirt and realizing the bodice is still intact. Still tied. Still in place. Relief mixes with a sick twist of fear. Ignacio watches me from the corner, wearing a sad expression.
“Relax, no one touched you. Not like that.” His voice is comforting despite the circumstances. “I hope the same is true for my daughter.”
“Genesis?” I whisper her name.
“You know her?”
“Sort of. I mean, she did have a knife pointed at my chest once.”
“Ya, you met her then.” Ignacio lets out a small chuckle. “What did you do to make her mad?”
“I wasn’t very nice to Ariella.”
“Ya, that will do it. Ariella’s like a sister to her.” His eyes narrow, and he looks trapped in his own memories. “She’s loyal to a fault, like me. There are a lot of bad qualities she picked up from me, too, though.”
“I hope my child doesn’t get any of my bad qualities,” I murmur.
“Why are you in here, kid? How do you know Cassiel?” Ignacio changes the subject.
“Cassiel?” My face falls at the name.
“That’s who took us. Outside the wedding. It was Cassieland his fucking hooligans. Took me before the ceremony even started.”
What the fuck would Cassiel want with me?
The truck begins to slow, then there’s a hard brake that sends me sliding, and Ignacio bracing the wall. My heart jumps into my throat. There’s a metal bang from the outside.
Knock
Knock
Knock
The driver kills the engine, and I scoot close to Ignacio as fear creeps through me. A muffled voice comes from outside, but the words don’t form. It’s not English or Spanish.
“Fucking Italians,” Ignacio curses under his breath.
My pulse stutters. The rear lock clicks before the metal door groans open. Boots scrape the ground. Two shadows loom tall in the doorway, rifles shouldered, silhouettes filling the entire opening. A flashlight shines directly into my face. Ignacio shifts in front of me instinctively, trying to shield me even with his wrists tied.
The beam drags over me again, slower this time, as if cataloging my dress, my hair, my bare feet. Ignacio tenses like he’s ready to break the cuffs off his wrists. Fear crawls up my spine, cold and merciless.
“Move,” one of the men says in a thick Italian accent.
When my feet stall, another dressed in military attire steps into the truck and yanks me forward by my upper arm.
“Hey cabrón!” Ignacio groans when a second soldier climbs into the truck.
There’s a hard thud as he slams Ignacio against the wall before pulling him out of the truck.
“Move or I shoot,” the soldier says. I follow him down a metal staircase through a door.
We step into a large room with circle tables placed strategically throughout. Each table is equipped with a greentop, poker chips, and ashtrays. The lights are low, and the silence is sickening.
