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Then I see Mila.
She has duct tape over her mouth, her eyes wild with horror. Her arms are behind her. The bastard must have bound her.
A thousand thoughts scream for attention in my head, and the only words that come out are: “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on, my dear Gina? I don’t like the turn our relationship took. The negative coverage impacted me as expected, so I need you to correct it. Isn’t crisis management one of your specialties, my dear?” His tone sends goosebumps down my spine.
He locks the door and ambles casually to sit across from Mila. Crossing one leg over the other, he smiles at me, waiting. Dressed smartly in a dark three-piece suit, including a handkerchief in his breast pocket, he’s the picture of a gentleman. A soul of evil.
“Let Mila go. She has nothing to do with this.” I find my voice. Just barely.
“Don’t worry, I won’t harm Mila. I will take care of her, feed her—mind you, feed her very well, given my talents in the kitchen—nothing will happen to her. But, as you can see, the place is deserted. I’ve had no reservations for a week now. Thanks to you and your pitiful little scheme to save Massimo fucking Cassinetti.”
I always attributed my inability to think rationally and this man’s complete domination over my thoughts and feelings to my own lack of self-confidence. Suddenly, in the barely lit room, listening to his cold, calculated, entitled voice, I discover that I’ve spent a big part of my life with a psychopath.
The realization shivers through me, leaving me oddly confident. As if, in this moment, all my self-doubt is erased.
“What do you want from me, Frederick? Haven’t you caused enough problems already?”
The bastard chuckles. “I don’t cause problems, Gina. I only work to get what is rightfully mine. It's my duty in life—my vocation—to forge perfection, to create the best flavors. I've dedicated my life to searching for the best culinary experience. I’m the best chef in the world. It's not about feeding people, it's not about getting the fucking star. It’s about the ultimate experience that only I can facilitate. It's my purpose.Mypurpose.
“Not one of those wannabes like Massimo. Or the other assholes. It was easy to get rid of some of them. I poisoned one, I scared most of them. Here a sleeve caught on fire, there someone slipped and broke their hip. Eliminating potential competition used to be easy. But people got suspicious, so I had to work harder, be smarter. Over the years, you helped me many times. All the mishaps happening at your client’s places? You should be grateful. You developed the crisis management capability thanks to me.
“But Massimo always rises from the ashes like a fucking phoenix. I stole his SoHo location all those years ago, I sent health inspectors to his place, I paid a cook to set it on fire.”
With every word, my newly-found confidence weakens. The poison of his words, of his actions, is almost impossible to accept. The realization of what he’s truly capable of squeezes at my stomach like a merciless vise.
I glance at Mila, who is frowning and wiggling her shoulders as if she is trying to shake off whatever is tying her. It doesn’t seem to disturb Frederick.
“Yet, the man doesn’t scare easily. I fucking stole his wife and son. And you ran back to him, to help him achieve even more than he managed before. I endured life with you, you frigid ice queen. You owe me. You will help me get back on top.” His nostrils flare.
Mila has stilled. The man is deranged, and while I’m shaking all over, a clear thought penetrates my terrified mind. I have to cooperate to increase our chances of getting out of here.
“What do you want me to do?” I don’t know if it’s my trembling voice or the words themselves, but he smiles. It’s his usual smile, and I don’t understand how I’m only now seeing the true menace behind it.
Something glistens in his hands and I realize he’s holding a cleaver knife. I gasp and Mila whimpers.
“I want you to call all the bloggers and media and tell them you made up all that shit about me.”
I stare at him, understanding the ugly despair behind his actions. Unlike all the vile, coldly calculated actions he’s just recounted, desperation drives him now.
In a brief moment that follows, I think about Massi and Seb, about all the decisions I’ve made out of fear, or because I misjudged the circumstances. I think of all this man has taken from me, regardless of how much I let him. And while I’m scared for Mila, and for myself, I push my fear aside, and an odd sense of empowerment settles over me.
“Can I sit down?” I ask. I clench my fists a few times. My palms are damp and a trickle of sweat runs down my spine, but I will not let him win. Not this time. Not anymore.
“Of course, Gina. Forgive my lack of hospitality.” He speaks sweetly, and I’m not sure if he’s mocking me or if he has lost his mind completely. He walks around and stands behind Mila.
I take a seat where I can see her, and one glance confirms she is tied to the chair at her waist and her ankles.
Frederick fidgets behind her back and releases her hands, but before either of us can react he grips her wrist, pushes it against the table and smoothly slices the cleaver over it.
I scream. Mila goes pale, but when I look down there is no blood. He feigned the cut, sweeping the blade barely above her skin. My heart pounds in my temples as my eyes meet his. I’m flooded with so much hatred right now I can barely see straight.
He stands between me and Mila, the knife over her trembling hand. “You better start dialing, and make it believable.”
Does he really think this would work? As if he could hear my thought, he adds, “Or you can leave and take care of the business while I wait here with Mila. How long is it going to take? Perhaps a pretty little finger for each day?”
“I’ll start calling now.” I pull out my phone with shaking hands. “I need to use my laptop where I have a spreadsheet with all the contacts and social media handles.”
