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"Call it what you will," he says, leaning forward. "But I believe in making the best of any circumstance. Now, back to my initial question. Did you sleep well?"
I sigh, relenting to the pointless convo. "As well as one can in a prison, I guess."
He chuckles, the sound sending a peculiar warmth through the air. "You have a way with words, I can see why you're a journalist. Always finding the narrative in the most unexpected places."
I bristle at the mention of my profession. "This isn't a story, Tommaso. This is my life, disrupted by a criminal."
He raises an eyebrow. "Criminal? Is that how you see me?"
I meet his gaze head-on. "What else would you call someone who kidnaps another person?"
His expression doesn't falter, but a flicker of something unreadable passes through his eyes.
“Eat,” he commands.
Deep down I know I’m hungry but, right now, my stomach is in knots. Sitting across from the man, the mafia don, who’s holding me captive against my will does not promote a healthy appetite. I look dubiously at the French bun and fruits that have been placed in my plate and then at him.
He looks tense. Annoyed. And I think it’d be wise not to antagonize him, for now. So I just poke at the fruits with my fork. He doesn’t smile, that irritating grin of his. Instead, he glares at me. I take a bite of the bun.
Oh, it’s mouthwateringly good. As my teeth sink into its golden layers, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. The taste transports me back to the three-star cuisine of Oliver’s, where I reviewed their French buns, which, surprisingly, are still no match for these. I am hungry, really hungry. I chew ravenously and he looks at me. What is his damn problem?
“Three star-worthy?” he looks at the table and scoffs.
I let my fork drop. “I don’t care about your delicacies.” I am just glad I get to see another morning.
“You should be glad you get to see another morning.” It’s as if he just read my mind. I look at him, peacefully drinking his coffee. He starts to slice through his bun, looking serious and focused, handling the fork carefully.
“How does one have an appetite after all of what you do?” I gulp and look at him, wanting to see if I have pissed him off.
“Excuse me?” He has stopped eating. And is looking at me with a piercing gaze. I can feel it on me.
“How do you carry on with your day?” I look around.
“I am really not in the mood for an unwanted argument right now,” he keeps a straight face. I still take the leap to test his limits.
“I am not a child that you can snub anytime you want,” I snap.
“Well, then stop acting like one.” I feel my blood get hot. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I grip the butter knife tightly in my hand as he resumes eating. His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift and I know he’s trying to stifle a grin.
“You sure you have the guts to use it on me?” he drawls and inches closer towards me.
I never thought I would find myself so easily distracted by someone's voice. Yet every time he speaks, my mind goes blank and my heart beats faster. It's his tone that does it, that smooth timbre that wraps around each word like velvet. It's off-putting, to say the least.
Do they teach that in bad guy school? How to distract your enemy with your voice, or in this case, your prey? I look at the knife in my hand, inadvertently pointed towards him now.
“One inch closer and you’ll find out,” I manage to say. My heart is racing faster than a Chevy at Daytona. He snorts, as if this is funny. And it enrages me further.
“Do you always wake up this grumpy?”
“I wouldn’t know. I have never woken up at an egocentric mobster’s penthouse who is holding me captive.” I roll my eyes at him.
“You did, once, if I remember correctly.” He dares to smile. I almost choke on my bite. What the hell?
“Carrot?” he says munching on one.
“Seriously? That is all you have to say?!’
“To what?” he keeps his calm.
