Did she see something she wasn’t supposed to? Steal? Kill someone he loves?
Ha. That man loves nothing but death and destruction. I saw it in his eyes when he watched the gargoyle haul me away. They were cold, calloused from any signs of empathy.
“What’s next?” I grumble, my pajama shorts a resistance band around my calves. “Torture? Throwing me into the ocean?” I shake my head with the spirit of Mo’Nique fromPrecious. “I think not!”
While I’ve been chained to the bed for the greater part of the day, I’ve been fed. Alfred comes in with fresh fruits and meals. He even washed my pajamas and bonnet for me to shower in the small bathroom that could have been in a rustic hotel.
They’re not fooling me. They want me to be comfortable enough to attack when I least expect it. Either way, I’m stomping a hole in someone’s ass and getting myself out of here.
I wipe, pull up my shorts, and wash my hands. No affirmations are on the mirror, but my reflection stares back at me like Issa Rae.
“Mirror Bitch.”
We’re not giving pep talks while we’re held hostage.
Mothballs and death cling to the stale air. If I’m next to get strung up on the ceiling, cut the fuck up with ahacksaw, I’m going out with a fight. Matt Damon was nothing but sharp cheekbones and determination in the firstBournemovie. If he could get his licks in with a pen, there’s hope for me.
He was also a trained assassin.
He wouldn’t last a week in HR.
The door to the cell opens in a slow cry. My breath hitches at the timid voice.
“Ciao?”
I peek out of the bathroom to meet brown eyes and narrowed brows. The man is young with a baby face matching his bare chin. His gaze swings between the chain extending from beneath the bed and me.
“Your water and snack,” he says in Italian. His hands shake as he grips the wooden tray with a glass and fresh pastry, unsure if he should come closer.
This is your chance.
I’m never one to play on a person’s emotions, but desperate times.
I gulp hard and allow my lip to quiver. Tears trickle down my cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I answer, voice thick as I wrap my hands around my middle. “They’re going to kill me.”
A sob racks my chest, surprising me. Stephanie and I used to practice crying on command after watching that oneDawson’s Creekepisode. Dawson Leery had no business snorting and sneezing on the dock the way he had, but we cackled and fine-tuned our waterworks to pull out in case of emergencies.
The young man glances over his shoulder and steps closer. “Hey. It will be okay.”
“N-no, it won’t. I-I’m not who they’re looking for,” I wail. “What’s your name?”
He scratches his cornrows and bites the inside of his cheek. “Scemo.”
Who named this boy “Stupid”?
I sniffle. “It’s nice to meet you, Scemo. I’m Bianca.”
His forehead wrinkles, drawing his face into a frown. “I thought you were, but they said you’re Diana.”
“I’m not,” I plead. “My passport will show I’m Bianca. It’s back in Naples, where I was taken. Can you help me get it?”
Scemo shakes his head, the battle between his innocence and obeying orders playing out in a sigh. He looks at the door he left open before setting the tray on a small table next to the bed. “I should get someone.”
“Wait!” I grab the soccer jersey hanging from his lanky form. Fresh tears fill my eyes. “Can you at least uncuff my foot? My ankle hurts.”
