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Cushions are everywhere. Rich fabrics, deep reds and blacks. People lounge instead of sit. Many young and beautiful women drape themselves over the cushions, smiling and flirting with the men.

I move toward the bar. The bartender watches me approach, his expression sullen.

“What can I get you?” he asks in English, surprising me.

“My belly dancing instructor in Bucharest told me to come here,” I say.

He lifts his eyebrows.

“Her name is Irina. Irina Vasilescu.”

His expression shifts. No longer sullen. He smiles. “Then you should try our specialty,” he says.

I nod. “What is it?”

“Țuicǎ.”

“That’s plum brandy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect,” I say.

He pours it into a small glass that looks strange. Kind of foggy.

Before I can take a sip, I turn quickly toward loud voices. Two men are arguing several feet away. One shoves the other, but after a brief struggle, it’s over.

No one else seems particularly concerned.

I blink and turn back to my drink at the bar.

Present Day

I’m still sitting in this damned cell on this damned cot. My good-looking captor was apparently called away.

How could I have been so cavalier with him?

I need to get a grip. I of all people should know how serious the situation is. This man is my captor, not a freaking guy I met on Hinge.

“Hey,” a voice says.

I look up. It’s a different guy, this one dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

“What?” I say abruptly.

“Got your food.” He throws a brown paper bag through the bars. “Go ahead. Eat.”

I gulp. “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry,” he says. “I have my orders. Now eat.”

I rise and grab the bag off the concrete floor. He tosses a bottle of water through the bars as well. I eye the bucket in the corner of the small cell. Eventually I’ll have to use it, especially if I drink. Which I have to do. I can go several weeks without food. But water? That’s essential.

I pick up the bottle and take it and the bag back to my cot and sit down. I open the bag. Inside is a bruised apple and a piece of stale bread.

“You expect me to eat this?” I ask, scoffing.

He pulls a gun out of the back of his waistband.