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I go down for breakfast, walking down the dim hallway with the portraits. The faces stare at me, judging quietly. A man died. Several. Some by my kidnapper’s hand. How does one live with that? How does he? The stairs creak under my feet. The noise is amplified in the big, quiet house. I pass empty rooms and the cold library and stop in front of the locked study door. The phones must be in there together with everything else Maxime doesn’t want me to find. It’s useless, but I feel the handle. As I expected, the door doesn’t swing open under my pressure.
I continue to the dining room. Fruit and croissants are set out on the table. Giving the buttery pastries and fat oranges a long look, I go on, walking to the kitchen. What I need is comfort food. Familiar food.
When I enter, Francine looks up from wiping down the counters. My presence makes her go stiff. I don’t bother to say good morning, as I don’t expect her to reply. Going past her, I take a mug from the cupboard.
“Can I help you?” she asks, propping her hands on her hips.
“No, thanks.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line when I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Don’t you drink tea? It’s in the cupboard behind you.”
“Not today.” I blow on the brew. “Oh, was the coffee for you?”
She dumps the cleaning cloth on the counter. “I’ll just have to make a fresh pot.”
“There’s still plenty left.”
Grabbing the flask, she pours what’s left of the coffee down the drain and rinses it. I take a sip. It’s strong. While she polishes the flask harder than necessary with a dishcloth, I look for the sugar. All I find is a box with a corner cut open. Since there isn’t a sugar pot, I fill a cup.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She pushes a bowl with cubes my way. “This is France. Get used to the way we do things here.”
I consider that for a moment. It’s a stupid rebellion, childish really. On any other day, I may not have found her rebuke worthy of a response, but today isn’t just another day. Today, I add two heaped spoons of sugar to my coffee, giving her a sweet smile. Her fingers clench on the dishcloth. Making a mental note to never take cubes, I pop a slice of bread into the toaster. What is it with the French and cubes, anyway?
Eyeing the bread, she says, “There is breakfast in the dining room.” She continues, adding a little jab, “As per Max’s orders.”
“Does he decide what I’m eating?”
“He pays my salary.” Her lips curve into a smile. “That means whatever he decides goes.”
I lean my butt against the cupboard. “Exactly. That makes him your boss. So, if I were you, I’d remember my place.”
Her eyes flare. “That makes you what? His girlfriend?”
The toast pops. I dump it on a plate. “Oh, nothing as romantic as that. I think until yesterday I was a hostage. Today, apparently, the term is property.”
She blanches. She doesn’t like the statement. That’s strange. To me, property sounds like an insult.
“I suppose hoping there’s peanut butter is stretching it too far?” I ask as I go through the food cupboards.
“You’re nothing but a distraction,” she says to my back. “Max is never that careless. You almost got him killed last night.”
Inwardly, I still at the words. It’s not as if it hasn’t been running through my mind. Anyone can die at any moment, but Max’s lifestyle puts him—us—at a higher risk. A much higher risk.
I settle on the butter and jam in the fridge.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she asks.
“I’ll pass your concern to Maxime.”
I’ve lost my appetite, but I spread a thick layer of butter and jam on the toast and take a seat by the window nook to eat.
“Do you mind?” she asks just as I open my mouth to take a bite. “I’m busy, and you’re in the way.”
She’s asking to me leave? I lower my hand. “Actually, I do mind.” I don’t know where the nastiness comes from. I only know I’ve reached my limit. “I’d like to eat in peace. You can come back in fifteen minutes.”
Color rises in her cheeks as she stares at me with her wide green eyes so perfectly set off against her porcelain white skin.
“If you prefer that the order comes directly from your boss,” I say when she doesn’t move, “you can always call Max.”
“Your days are numbered.” The color of her irises turns brilliant. “We’ll see who’ll have the last laugh.” Head held high, she walks from the kitchen.
If only she knew. Even if Damian’s life is no longer the sword Maxime holds over my head, he made it clear he won’t let me go. Anyway, running is impossible. I have no money, no passport, and I doubt I’ll get far, not if Maxime is the head of the most powerful mafia group in France. I can dial no one except for Maxime from my phone, and I don’t have access to a laptop. The only measure of freedom I have is going to school. Phones aren’t allowed in class, and Maxime’s men are watching my every move outside of class. Even if I did get my hands on a phone or somehow managed to send an email to the South African embassy, Maxime made it clear he’d chase me. After what happened in South Africa, I don’t doubt it for a minute. Damian is in jail, unable to help me. I don’t have friends or allies here. I can’t ask anyone for help.
