Page 20 of Forbidden Fate

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.