Page 20 of Nemesis

He sighs, shifting slightly against the ground. It’s so damn quiet in here, the low rustle of his shirt echoes through the air. “I work with some bad people.”

My eyes double in size as I stare back at his shadowed face. “What’s that supposed to mean? Did you piss someone off?”

He chuckles softly. “Who haven’t I pissed off?”

“At least we can agree on that,” I mutter, turning around. A door. Now that I can see the cage walls, I need to find the door. I can still feel the weight of his attention settling on my neck, but I’ve had a lot of practice ignoring irritants in my life. “So,” I growl between clenched teeth. “What exactly did you screw up so badly that it warranted kidnapping us off the street?”

“I’m not sure,” he answers easily. “I don’t think you’ll appreciate this, but the whole kidnapping routine is kind of an industry standard in syndicates.”

I spin around so fast, cold gushes over my skin like a phantom wind. A syndicate? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

He crosses one leg over the other, stretching out against the wall with a casualness that makes me want to grab that belt and finish what I started. “They probably assumed you were with me when they grabbed us. Sorry about that.”

Sorry about that?

“What the hell are you talking about? Who are you mixed up with?”

His lips fold in concentration, like he’s really thinking about the answer to my question. “The mob? Is that what you call it over here?”

He has got to be fucking with me.

“Like The Godfather?”

He frowns. “I don’t know what that is.”

I roll my eyes. “The Mafia, then.”

“Well, yeah. Sort of. We don’t really do business with the Mafia these days, though. They’re assholes.”

What. The. Fuck.

“The Mafia kidnapped you?” I ask in pure disbelief.

“Us. The Mafia kidnapped us,” he corrects. “And I just told you, we don’t really work with the Mafia—in fact, I’d be shocked if they bothered to keep their hostages alive for more than a few hours. Like I said. Assholes.”

Hostages.

The word slams through my mind over and over, ringing in the realization. An organized crime syndicate. Bratva. Hostages.

I walk to the opposite end of the enclosed space and drop to my knees, hands roving over the nasty floor. His words refuse to process properly in my mind.

“What are you doing?”

God, I’m really getting tired of him asking that.

I reach forward, brushing the corner of the wall. All I feel is slick mildew.

“Haven’t you ever seen Saw? I’m trying to find the missing weapon they’re gonna make me kill you with.”

The fucker laughs, the sound bursting into my ear like microphone feedback. “You Americans and your movies. Can’t live in reality for more than five minutes at a time.”

I turn, glaring. “You’re telling me the fucking Mafia is real, but there’s no chance Saw is?”

He shrugs. “I started it on the plane. Never finished. Too much talking, not enough bleeding.”

I stare back at the stranger slung across the floor. My weight sinks back onto my heels.

I’m trapped in a cage with a psycho.