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Sudden nausea assails me. I swallow down the bile that has made its way from my stomach to my throat.
Gradually, my mind clears and I start to remember what went down. Giorgio. Pockface.
The motherfuckers fucking kidnapped me!!!
I choke on a sob. Everything was so perfect between me, Marco and Alessio. The masquerade ball, the way they made love to me afterward. For the first time, it had felt like we weren’t just having sex… it had felt like they cared for me.
Maybe even loved me like I love them.
I try to move my arms and legs. Holy shit, I’ve been shackled like a slave. I feel the coldness of steel wrapped around my wrists and ankles. I squirm, and the clink of metal chains fills my ears. The shackles bite into my skin. I struggle and whimper in agony. My hands and legs have been manacled to a damp stone wall, I realize, as I twist my body against it.
My throat constricts with panic and my pulse thuds painfully. Breathe, Sefi, breathe. Terror presses like a boulder on my chest.
I hear footsteps approaching.
My back stiffens and a shiver runs down my spine.
A light switch flicks. I close my eyes at the glare, flinching away and pushing myself hard against the wall.
A hand clamps down on my arm and I snap my eyes open.
Pockface.
He tightens his fingers. “I warned you to stay away from that poliziotto.”
Fear has rendered me speechless, but I couldn’t speak if I tried. I roll my head from side to side.
“Thought you’d be safe taking refuge with those two faggots?” He snickers in my ear. “All we had to do was make that stronzo boatman an offer he couldn’t refuse…”
Pockface lets go my arm and twists his hand in my hair, yanking my head back. My scalp burns like fire and tears of pain gush from my eyes. He bends and licks his tongue down my neck, the stench of his breath so vile I want to puke.
“You’re a tasty dish, one I wouldn’t mind trying for myself, but the boss would kill me. In any case, he has plans for you...”
Pockface stares at me, watches the tears sliding down my cheeks with cold eyes.
A sudden crash, and the door to the room where I’m being held swings open.
A short, dark-haired man strides into the room, flanked by two hulks brandishing handguns.
And my heart nearly explodes from my chest.Chapter ThirtyAlessioKoffler is waiting for me at the station, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. “The DNA results have come through,” he says, running a hand through his blond hair. “They match Signorina Martinez and Giorgio Zanin’s profiles. Also, another unidentified male for whom we have no profiling.”
Rage claws at my body. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just as we thought. Either Zanin had an accomplice. Or the unidentified male somehow gained access to the palazzo and persuaded Signorina Martinez to open the door to him. Zanin would have left his DNA when he obtained the key from Contessa Lorrer later in the afternoon.”
Koffler nods. “I’ve looked at a recording from the Accademia Bridge webcam and it shows Zanin passing underneath in your partner’s boat at 4.33 p.m.” He furrows his brow. “Zanin is alone at the wheel. No passengers…”
I swallow around the lump of emotions in my throat. Desolation. Anger. Frustration. “It doesn’t mean there wasn’t anyone with him, hiding or hidden, but, given that Zanin met Signor Lorrer at the airport about twenty-five minutes later, I think he was almost certainly by himself at that stage of the proceedings.” I press my lips together. “I’ll interview him again. You go home and get some rest.”
“Just one more recording to check through.” Koffler sets his jaw. “I’ll call his lawyer and get Zanin sent up from the cells.”
I pour myself a cup of black coffee from the machine in the corridor, then step into the interview room. Through the windowpane, I notice swirls of murky mist have rolled in from the Lagoon. A high tide has also flooded the city, which necessitated me wearing thigh-high boots to wade through the seawater spilling over the edges of the canals on my way in to work. It’s a regular occurrence in the winter months…
Not the best time of the year to visit Venice. Camila messaged that she’ll be arriving this afternoon. I hope to hell I’ll have good news for her. I inhale calming breaths through my nostrils, focus on achieving the right mindset to extract information from Giorgio Zanin. When I talked to him last night, I could tell he was nervous. Although he denied any involvement, he shifted around in his seat and wouldn’t meet my eye.
I glance up as he’s ushered into the room. Tall and sinewy, his leathery skin baked dark brown by a life lived under the harshness of the sun, he shuffles forward, prompted by Koffler, and sits on the opposite side of the desk to me. His lawyer takes the seat next to him. Koffler switches on the recording device and leaves me to it.
