“Grazie, grazie... I'm fine...” I thanked the woman, who immediately withdrew, and glared at Daisy with resentment. “That's just pasta!”
“So...?” she asked, looking at me sideways, her cheek puffed out with food.
“And you don't need to moan like that!” I protested.
“First time hearing a woman make those kinds of sounds, Mr. Vicari?”
I sat up straight in my seat, my attention fixed on the slender figure of the American woman who, despite the provocations, remained focused on the plate of agnolotti in front of her. I allowed myself a mischievous smile, against my better judgment
“They tend to moan louder.”
It was Daisy’s turn to choke.
Chapter 24
Daisy Peonia Mary Parker
July, 2025
To say that I hated my kidnapper was an understatement.
I watched his victorious smile out of the corner of my eye. The smug expression of a man who was fully convinced of his own prowess in bed. As Aunt Lizzie always said, high quality products don't need big marketing campaigns.
“Oh, did I hit a sore spot?” I sneered, turning to face him. I still didn't understand why the bastard hadn't returned to his seat in front of me. The last thing I needed was his cologne clinging to my skin, no matter how good he smelled. “Some male fragility?”
He laughed. “I just answered your question, Signorina Parker.”
I decided that the pasta in front of me was more interesting. Without wasting another second on him, I filled my mouth withthat delicious food again. The filling was minced meat. It tasted like some kind of sauté with onion, garlic, tomato, and... bay leaf. Yes, it was definitely bay leaf. My taste buds never lied. And it was seasoned with pepper and nutmeg. The salt was just right, and that tomato sauce on the outside was delicious. It tasted of wine, ripe tomatoes, and beef. I wouldn't say it was the best thing I'd ever eaten in my life because the pancakes from a few moments ago, with that salty black stuff on top, were unbeatable.
Unfortunately, dinner was topped off with the most disgusting, vile, outrageous, Satan’s spawn of a dessert...
Tiramisu.
I wrinkled my nose, staring at the dessert waiting for me in a glass bowl. A whole day without eating wasn't enough to make me touch that. In fact, I think if they locked me in a cell without food or water for a week, I would still refuse to eat tiramisu. A gun, a knife, nothing compared to that damn cocoa powder entering my airways.
"It's chocolate powder, with mascarpone and whipped cream under it. It also has biscotti dipped in coffee. It's good, try it," said my very kind soon-to-be murderer as if I were a six-year-old child.
“I know what Tiramisu is,” I muttered, gently pushing the bowl away. “It's a dessert I can GLADLY live without.”
To my shock, I saw one of his huge hands pull the bowl. “Va bene. I'll eat it.”
I didn't answer. I just stared at him with wide eyes, surprising myself after a few minutes when he cleaned out both of the very generous bowls. I knew the man was big, but I couldn't figure out where he found the space for so much food.
I curled up in my seat again and watched the world outside the airplane window. There was something very peaceful about contemplating the sky from that altitude. Seeing everything through a layer of clouds, as if nothing existed down below.
I sighed.
I wasn't sure how many hours the plane trip would take, only that it would be quite long. I wondered about the near future. After twelve years, my life turned into a nightmare again. Almost a victim of murder, then a witness to one. Now a prisoner of an Italian psychopath, on a plane to Italy with a timer over my head that I didn't know when it would run out. I should be in a state of panic. The longing I was already feeling for my home, my family, my Mississippi, should be enough to send me into a spiral of horror and despair, but that wasn't how I felt.
I was angry. I wanted to strangle the man next to me every time he spoke. Still, I didn't fear him, quite the opposite. The night before, I had run into his chest the same way I ran into my Papa's arms so many times as a little girl. And before we took off, overcome by sadness at not being able to see my loved ones again, his arms around me had calmed my soul.
Was this the Stockholm Syndrome everyone talked about?
I shook my head. It couldn't be, because before I knew what his intentions were, I had already felt that when he held me closeto his chest. A feeling of protection that I had only known with my father... and with Lester. It was the kind of emotion that told my subconscious that when everything went wrong, it was there I should run to.
The problem was that Camillo Vicari was not like my Papa, let alone Lester. He was a criminal, a murderer, and a kidnapper who intended to get rid of me once the time was right.
Chapter 25
