Page 6 of Brutal Captivity

“He’s an only child. He’s twenty-five years old. He earned an Art History degree from Luiss University in Rome. He’s only been back in the states for about six months,” Evan continues pretending I didn't say anything.

“Any significant others?” I can’t help but ask the question that has been plaguing me.

“Nope. He’s single, no current or even recent relationships that I could find,” Evan answers, and my relief is purely professional. He won’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend that is looking for him.

“Job?” I ask.

“Not really. He doesn’t really do much. Had some modeling gigs here and there, but nothing substantial. Seems to have switched his focus to art dealing and collecting. Doesn’t show up in the papers with his family as much, seems to be somewhat estranged,” Evan tells us, looking down at his notes, and I roll that information around in my head.

“Interesting. So, Callisto wasn’t lying. What happened between him and his wealthy family for him to not want to remain in contact with them?” I wonder out loud.

“No one really knows. Lots of rumors, though. Some say it’s because he’s gay…”

“Is he?” I cut Evan off.

“Nothing concrete. Just speculation, but there is a lot of pretty solid evidence that he is gay, and his father isn’t happy about it,” Evan says, and there is pity in his eyes. And for the first time, I sort of understand Callisto. I understand what it’s like to have a shitty, unsupportive father.

“Do you think him not being close with his parents will change things?” Fletcher asks.

“Nah. His parents will pay for the freedom of their only heir, no matter how deep the wounds run.” I respond, certain of it.

“Any more about Nico?” Daron asks, his voice curious. We start making our way to Callisto and Nico’s holding cell.

“Nico Javier Mendoza. Still can’t find much on his family or any nearby relatives. His entire life seems to be his job,” Fletcher tells us; I nod, chewing on my lip in thought.

“Keep digging. There has to be something on him before he turned eighteen and went to college. He didn’t appear out of nowhere as a full grown adult,” I say, thinking about the possibility of ransoming him, too. If someone had enough money to cover his existence for eighteen years, they would have enough money to fork over for his safe return.

“Can you stand guard a little while longer? I know he’s a brat, but me and D have to go out and get a few things, then we can take over.” I come to a stop in front of the holding cell and look between the two.

“Can one of you pre-historic Neanderthals' let us out to visit the restroom?” comes an annoyingly shrill voice from behind the door. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Can’t I have one moment of peace?

“You have a toilet,” I respond.

“There is no privacy,” he snaps back.

I picture him, standing on the other side of the door staring at the single toilet in the middle of the open room with a disgusted look on his face. His entitlement has him believing that using the toilet in the middle of the room is optional. It isn’t. He has no options anymore. It’s our way or a body bag. Period.

“Get used to it.”

A pause. Not silence exactly. More like he’s deciding whether rules are real things or just suggestions people haven’t argued with him properly about yet.

“Are you going to let us starve, too?” he asks, switching topics.

“Yes,” I answer automatically, but the word sounds wrong. Too harsh. I change my answer, “No.”

“Which is it?” he asks, tapping his foot in sharp, impatient rhythms against the floor.

I clench my jaw then take a deep, controlled breath. “No.” The word is forced out through gritted teeth.

“Good. I would like a salad,” he says through the door. Like his captivity is a GUCCI store with worse lighting and an odd odor.

“You are in no position to be making requests,” I remind him.Breathe. In and out. In… and out…

“Some balsamic on the side would be nice,” he continues, as if I’m the one being unreasonable.

I wait for the punchline. Wait for Callisto to give some indication that he’s joking about all of this, and he uses humor as a coping mechanism. It never comes. “Look, Princess Peach, I’m not your butler," I say, trying hard not to lose my temper.

“If you want to try your little negotiations with my father, you will have to keep me happy,” he says, but his voice has lost its hostility. He’s starting to question himself.