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I try the door and it opens easily. I stare at the hallway beyond, frozen with shock. That’s crazy, and I feel stupid for not trying the door last night.
I’m greeted with more silence, so I start edging along the carpet, poised to run if anyone jumps out at me. The hall opens into a huge, sunny living room with expensive modern furniture in neutral colors.
The apartment is filled with the sort of silence and stillness that tells me I’m alone, but I search every room that I can get into just the same. A few doors are locked, but otherwise I’m free to roam the penthouse. The elevator doesn’t respond when I press the button, but I never expected it would. If there are stairs, then the door to reach them is locked.
Seeing as I can’t escape, I turn to my next pressing need: food.
The kitchen is huge, but there’s nothing in the refrigerator except sparkling water, and nothing in the freezer except for Grey Goose vodka. Cassius must eat out all the time. The apartment feels like it belongs to the big, dark-haired Italian man.
I find two biscotti in a box by the coffee machine and eat the rock-hard pieces, chasing them down with some sparkling water. I consider the vodka briefly, but since my misadventures with tequila, I haven’t touched alcohol. Now doesn’t seem the best time to start again.
I spend the rest of the day wandering around the apartment trying to fathom what I’m doing here and learning more about the man who’s holding me captive. Cassius has a taste for modern art prints and history books.
It’s growing dark outside when a rushing sound fills the air, like something big getting closer and closer. I’m lying on one of the sofas with a bottle of sparkling water and staring at the glittering lights of the city, when suddenly the elevator pings and the doors slide open. I glimpse more than one man as I jump to my feet.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
There’s a bathroom halfway down the corridor and as it’s closer than “my” room, I dive inside just as Cassius calls, “Chiara? Come here.”
“Screw you,” I mutter, and slam the door behind me. My heart is racing so fast that it feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. I can hear them out there, talking, Cassius and at least two others.
The back of my neck prickles and I realize it’s the plaster that Lorenzo stuck over the cut he gave me. I prod at it for a moment, and then peel it off.
I’m standing with my back to the mirror trying to peer over my shoulder at my own neck when the door slams open, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Lorenzo glares at me from the doorway, and then sees the bandage with dried blood on it in my hand.
“What are you doing with that?” he snaps.
“Trying to see how badly you cut me, you psycho.”
He turns me around, grabs my hair in his fist and pulls it up, inspecting the mark. I watch his reflection in the mirror as he peers at me. The hard line of his jaw. That narrowed blue gaze. The ink decorating his fingers that disappears into his sleeves. If he has tattooed hands then he must have tattoos everywhere. All over his body.
“You made a mess of me, didn’t you?” I accuse.
“It’s healing fine. What are you so worried about?”
His bare hand is on the nape of my neck and he’s standing so close I can feel the heat from his body. I wish my skin would crawl where he’s touching me, not tingle.
“I’m worried because you butchered me with a hunting knife!”
A cold smile spreads over his face and he strokes the nape of my neck as he meets my eyes in the mirror. The tingles become a jolt. “Such a little drama queen. I barely touched you.” Lorenzo lets me go. “Get the fuck out there. I’ve got shit to do tonight.”
He pushes me out of the bathroom and toward the lounge where I can hear the rustle of paper bags and Cassius and Vinicius talking. I suppose they were all working today, Cassius doing nightclub stuff and Lorenzo and Vinicius…I don’t know what they get up to. Probably nothing legal.
“What shit to do? What do you do, anyway?”
“Organ harvesting,” Lorenzo says, without missing a beat as we walk over to the sofas where Vinicius and Cassius are unpacking boxes of takeout and chopsticks.
I can’t tell if Lorenzo’s joking or not. The fact that he’s got so much medical equipment gives me the creeps.
He palms my lower back like a lover and murmurs, “How are those kidneys of yours? Fully functioning?”
I push his arm away. “Don’t touch me, asshole.”
“In your dreams, bitch,” he replies, and shoves me onto the U-shaped sofa. He sits down as well and I move around it until I’m four feet away from him.
The coffee table is loaded with Chinese takeout boxes and a savory aroma fills the air. My stomach growls in response, and Vinicius smiles as he opens a box and holds it out to me.
“I heard that. Egg roll?”
