“Where am I? Why am I here?” I barked, stomping toward the man.
“Why don’t you go and refresh yourself? I’ll be back for you and you’ll learn everything,” he said, and walked out, shutting the door behind him. He had left me, while it was me who was scared witless by this whole situation.
I tried prying the door open, but it was no use. The man must have used a key to lock me in. I swore under my breath. I was completely helpless.
There was another door by the fireplace. I opened it and turned the light on, revealing a spectacular bathroom. There was a gigantic bathtub in the middle, a dressing table in the corner, right next to a sink with a tall mirror. In the opposite corner there was a shower that could probably fit an entire football team. It had no shower caddy or walls—only a large glass panel and a floor made out of minuscule mosaic tiles. The bathroom was probably as large as Martin’s entire apartment. Martin… he must be worried sick. Or maybe not? Maybe he’s happy he got me out of his hair. I felt another pang of anger, this time laced with fear caused by the situation I had gotten myself into.
I walked up to the mirror and gazed at myself. I looked good, incredibly good in fact. My skin was tanned brown and I appeared well rested. The bags I had under my eyes lately had vanished. I was still dressed in the black tunic and the bikini I had been wearing on my birthday, when I had run from the hotel. How was I supposed to refresh myself without my stuff? I dropped my clothes and took a shower, grabbing a fluffy white bathrobe from the hanger. Here you go—refreshed!
As I walked around the room where I had woken up, looking for any clues as to my whereabouts, the door opened. The young Italian was there again. With a wide gesture, he showed me out. We walked down a long corridor decorated with flowerpots. The house was engulfed in darkness, illuminated only by the streetlamps outside, shining through the numerous windows. We weaved our way through a labyrinth of corridors until the man stopped by a door and opened it. He shut it behind me, staying outside. This room must have been a library—the walls were lined with bookshelves and paintings in heavy, dark frames. There was another beautiful stone fireplace in the middle, with a fire burning brightly within. Around it stood soft dark-green sofas stacked with dozens of pillows in various shades of gold. There was a small table next to one of them, with a champagne cooler perched on top. I shuddered. Alcohol was the last thing I needed right now.
“Please, have a seat. You didn’t react well to the sleeping pills. I had no idea you had a heart condition,” I heard a man say, and noticed a silhouette standing on the balcony, facing away from me.
I didn’t even flinch.
“Have a seat, Laura. I will have to use force if you don’t comply. I will not ask again.”
Blood was pounding in my head. I could hear the thumping of my own heart. I was about to faint and could see dark spots floating in front of my eyes.
“Why aren’t you listening to me, goddamn it?”
The silhouette leaped from the balcony into the room and caught me before I could collapse to the floor.
I blinked, trying to clear my sight, and felt the man sitting me down in an armchair and putting an ice cube into my mouth.
“Suck it. You’ve been asleep for nearly two days. The doctor gave you an IV so you didn’t dehydrate, but you may feel thirsty and dizzy.” I knew that voice and that characteristic accent.
I opened my eyes only to meet that ice-cold, animal stare. It was the same man I had met at the hotel, in the restaurant, and… oh my God—at the airport! He was dressed the same way he had been when we had landed on Sicily and when I had walked into his burly bodyguard. He was wearing a black suit with a black shirt with the top button undone. Very elegant and very imperious. I spat the ice cube into his face.
“Why am I here? Who are you and how dare you keep me here?”
He swept away the water spattered over his face, picked the cold translucent cube from the rug, and flung it into the fireplace.
“Answer me, you motherfucker!” I screamed, momentarily forgetting my dizziness. I tried to jump to my feet, but he put his hands over my shoulders and pushed me back into the armchair.
“I told you to sit down. I will not tolerate any insubordination,” he growled, leaning over me with his hands propped on the armrests.
Furious, I raised my hand and slapped his face. His eyes blazed with wild fury, and I shrank back in terror. The man rose, very slowly, straightened out, and inhaled loudly through his nose. I was so afraid of what I had done I stayed down, frozen, unable and unwilling to test his limits. He headed toward the fireplace, stopped with his back to me, and put his hands on the wall over the mantel, leaning on it heavily. Time was passing, and he stood there, utterly quiet. If not for the fact that he was keeping me there against my will, I would probably have felt pricks of conscience by now and would have started apologizing profusely, but in my circumstances, I couldn’t help feeling only anger.
“You’re so disobedient, Laura, I have difficulty believing you’re not Italian.”
He turned back and looked at me. His eyes were still blazing. I decided to keep quiet, hoping to learn what I was doing here and how much longer this whole business would take.
The door opened and the same young man who had brought me here entered.
“Don Massimo…” he stammered.
The Man in Black shot him a warning glance, making his subordinate freeze. Then he walked over to the younger man and stopped only a few inches short of touching him. He needed to bend down, being a lot taller than the second man—at least a few inches.
Their conversation was in Italian—the youngster spoke, and my captor stood perfectly still and listened. He replied with a single utterance and the other man disappeared, closing the door behind him. The Man in Black paced the room for a while, then left for the balcony. He leaned over the railing and started to repeat some phrase in a soft whisper.
Don… I recalled people referring this way to Marlon Brando in The Godfather. But he was the head of a Mafia family. Suddenly it all came together: the bodyguards, the cars with black windows, that enormous house, and the terrifying imperiousness. I had thought the Cosa Nostra a figment of Francis Ford Coppola’s imagination, but here I was, in the middle of the real thing.
“Massimo?” I asked quietly. “Is that what I am supposed to call you? Or Don?”
The man turned around and walked back to me with a confident stride. The whir of thoughts in my head made me gasp for air. The fear was paralyzing.
“So, you think you understand now?” he asked, reclining on the sofa.
“I think now I know what your name is.”
He smiled slightly, growing a bit more relaxed. “I imagine you’d like some kind of explanation. Nevertheless, I don’t know how you’ll react to what I am going to say. Better have a drink first.”
He stood up and poured us two glasses of champagne. He took one and passed it to me, and then sipped from the other one before taking his seat on the sofa again.
“A few years ago, I had a… let’s call it an accident. I was shot. It’s part of the risk you need to accept when you’re part of my family. As I lay dying, I saw…” He trailed off and got up. After walking to the fireplace, he placed the glass down on top of the stone mantel and sighed heavily. “What I’m about to tell you will be hard to believe. Before I saw you at the airport, I never hoped to meet you in person. Please, look up at the painting over the fireplace.”