“He kidnapped me for housesitting?!”
Did they steal my organs, Jesus?
“For house-sitting?” My voice cracks.
Did Bane toss me into a suitcase and ship me off to the highest bidder?
Whose room am I in?
Who the fuck kidnaps people for housesitting?!
I wiggle my toes to test my strength and stand. “I know damn well this is a UN violation. It’s on sight when I see your big ass.”
My stomach belches to remind me it’s still on E. Had I just kept my hungry ass in the house, I’d be back in my apartment. Naked and unafraid.
I was supposed to get laid tonight, but that’s out the window now. A window I can’t fucking access anyway, becausethere are none in this luxurious-ass lair!
“This has to be a joke.” I grip my pajama shirt and keel over to stop myself from hyperventilating. I don’t know where I am or how long I’ve been here.
Fear boils over into rage as the lock on the bedroom door unfastens. The adrenaline pumping through my veins demands blood and an ass-whooping on principle.
“Who doesn’t have a lamp on the nightstand?” I whisper-yell.
The vase of roses it is.
I grab the black pitcher off a small table to test its weight. Then I’ll hurl it at whoever enters the room. I could pretend to be asleep, but what if they strangle me in bed?
My grip tightens over the hammered grooves. “I’m finding the nearest embassy once I get out of here,” I say next to a black panel. On the other side is a sitting room and the suite’s entrance.
Do I drop the vase on their head or crack their jaw with it like a baseball bat?
What if I knock an elder unconscious, or worse?
Shouldn’t have been working for a kidnapper. Swing away.
I raise the vase over my head to strike, but I miscalculate the fatigue in my muscles from being drugged for however long. My biceps tremble before I’m showered with long-stemmed roses and water.
Shit!
A short man holding a silver tray takes one look at me and shakes his head. The language he’s speaking flows like Italian, but I don’t understand it. The vowels are elongated, stretching his words laced with boredom and disgust.
The rapid fury of forceful hand gestures and a scolding tone at the water dripping from my clothes onto the floor need no interpretation.
I wring my shirt out. “Parla Italiano?”
His face flames his russet brown shade, agitating the frown knitting between his brows. “I said, please refrain from touching the decor,” he says in clipped Italian. His mouth twists at my bare feet over a pool of water.
Billy Dee has an attitude with me? The nerve of him to look offended when I’m the one kidnapped and taken to wherever the hell I am. He and his slicked-back waves can kindly fuck off.
After he tells me where I am.
My glare mirrors the one stretching the fibers of his manicured mustache. “Where am I?”
“The specific location is irrelevant. You’re in Sir Bennici’s Catania manor. This is for you.”
I set the vase on the ground to take the glass of water that disappears in four gulps. “Catania?”
He sighs. “Sicily.”
