Page 3 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

"Liability," Matteo explains smoothly, settling into the leather chair across from me. "If you hit your head on turbulence, it reflects poorly on our service standard."

"Your service standard is already in the gutter, mate."

"We're professionals," he shrugs, flashing those infuriating dimples. "Mostly."

"Mostly," I mock, rolling my eyes. "That is incredibly fucking reassuring. I feel so much safer now."

"You want a drink? We've got wine. Good wine, actually, not that airport shit."

"I am not drinking with my fucking kidnappers."

Matteo lifts the bottle. "Suit yourself, more for me. Though usually people in your situation accept free booze."

"Usually people in my situation would be weeping on the floor, Matteo."

"Your loss. It's a brilliant Barolo," he sighs, pouring himself a glass.

The dark liquid splashes into the glass. I press my knees together to stop the tremor running through my legs and take a slow breath through my nose.

"Drink it," Matteo says, holding out the glass. "It helps with the altitude."

"I would rather drink gasoline," I say, turning my face toward the small oval window.

"Where are we going?" I ask, keeping my voice flat. "Give me a straight answer, not another joke."

"Why? So you can plan your dramatic escape out the emergency exit at thirty thousand feet?" he asks, taking a sip.

"So I know what media to contact when we land."

Matteo's grin dims a fraction. He glances at Sal, who shrugs, and then back at me.

"Italy," he offers, swirling his wine. "That's all you need to know."

"Fucking brilliant. Beautiful country. I hear the human trafficking industry there is lovely this time of year."

"We don't do human trafficking, that's disgusting," Matteo says, looking genuinely offended. "We are respectable organized criminals."

"Oh, pardon me! Respectable criminals! That changes everything! Should I leave a five-star review?"

"You're taking this remarkably well," he observes, a trace of genuine admiration creeping into his eyes that makes me want to claw them out.

"I'm not taking this well," I snap, digging my nails into my palm. "I'm kidnapped, drugged, and trapped on a jet by idiots. I just prefer keeping my dignity over giving you the crying fit you want."

Matteo considers this for a moment, head tilted, and then nods like I've said something genuinely wise.

He raises his glass in a mock toast. "Fair enough. For what it's worth, this isn't personal."

"It is entirely personal, you prick. You have my body locked in your private airplane."

"Okay, that's fair too," he chuckles, taking a slow sip.

The sky outside the window fades into a deep evening blue. My muscles ache, but I sit up straight in the leather chair and keep my eyes on Matteo.

To keep my brain from short-circuiting, I force myself to think about Sunday dinner at my parent's house. Dad was standing over a pan of gravy with flour on his cheek while Mum sat at the kitchen table with her cold tea, arguing about a plot hole in her new book over the smell of roasted potatoes.

"If you put cyanide in the gravy, darling, the inspector is going to arrest the cook in chapter two," Dad had said, waving a wooden spoon at her while butter spluttered on the stove.

"It is a classic poison, Oliver," Mum had replied, crossing out a line in her notebook and flicking a stray crumb off the page. "My readers do not want a rare South American frog toxin. They want a traditional English murder before tea."