45. Gigi

45

GIGI

I hold my hand out to Matteo's security detail who have by some means followed me. They must have tracked my escape via hidden cameras, even if I chased down the fire escape until I could connect with an elevator to the main lobby.

"Hold off," I beg them. "I need to negotiate here." This isn't only about Carla, but also about the baby she's carrying.

When light falls into the dark interior of the van, all I see is my sister, tied up and exactly as she was on the call earlier. Now a gun points at her temple, a scalpel blinking in the little light.

"Let her out," I say. Carla has to get out of harm's way first.

"How many people do you want to die today?" Franco's voice sounds from the back.

My gaze flicks to the side, only to see another man with an automatic rifle pointing at my waist. With that half of the double door closed, he's out of view to everyone except me.

God. We're outnumbered, and the streets are busy with tourists. Kids. Moms with strollers. Normal people going about their business.

"You said this was going to be a fair exchange," I beg, knowing I've stepped into Franco's trap. Again .

"Not here, amorina . Get in, or we pull away and she's dead. Make a scene, and we shoot this street to the ground. You have five seconds."

And no choice. I hold my hands up to the guards, indicating to them to back off. "Please tell Stephano I'm sorry. I had to go. He'll understand."

I clamber into the van willingly, and the door pulls closed.

It's dark inside, and adrenaline rushes through me. Carla moans, and then someone else does. I fall back as the van drives off, and my body hits something as I crumple to the floor.

"Carla?" I manage, barely a whisper, disoriented.

A hand slaps my face from out of nowhere, and I collapse to the bed of the truck as my ears ring.

"Fucking cunt. Making me come all the way to the States. Waste of my fucking time."

His body is on mine, pressing hard as he grabs my arms and twists them painfully. He jerks me around and ties my hands as my face gets squashed against the cold metal floor. I croak out a scream, but a knee presses into my back, squeezing my lungs so hard, I can hardly breathe. He tapes my legs together, and I strain to get the biggest gap possible between them.

Once I'm tied, he forces me into an upright position, twisting me so my face collides with his chest. His smell hits me full in the face, just like in Lake Como. Whiskey and cigarettes, but the rough scratch of a beard wasn't there before.

Medical disinfectant. This scent brings back every memory of that night, and I'm dry heaving in seconds.

"Come, come, amorina , it's not that bad."

"Let her go, Franco," I plead. "You want me, not her."

"You're so fucking predictable. Vincenzo was right. If I want you, I need to go for your sister. Worked in Lake Como, and now, it worked again."

I can hardly breathe with the way I'm pressed to him, and with the shock of my own stupidity. Instead of running to Carla, I should have stayed put and let Stephano and Matteo do the negotiations with this madman.

"You touch her, you die." I heave against his chest.

"Is that so?" He chuckles. "Time for you to shut the fuck up, amorina ."

Tape rips, and before I can say anything else, it glues to my mouth, gagging me. I'm already tender where he slapped me, but now he hits me again, and I slump back. The vehicle jolts and swerves as it speeds through Boston, and I'm like a loose object, shifting with every unexpected turn. Every now and again, the ride is so rough, I collide with something softer shoved against the wall.

Franco settles in the dark, and when the flick of a lighter casts a glow in the van, I glance around, frantic. He's lighting a cigarette, and I register he's wearing a plaid shirt. Not the black suit I saw him in last.

In the few seconds of light, I spot Carla and another woman, also tied up. There are three of us now. I don't know who this other woman is, but from the raw panic in her eyes, she's in the same boat as me and Carla.

The man with the automatic rifle sits close on a small bench. I remember him from Lake Como. The executioner . How many men did Franco bring over to come and fetch me? One of his men must be driving the van, too. But it's the dead eyes of the body I've been bashing into that makes my stomach turn. Tony .

Oh my God. This quiet man who watched me when Steph wasn't at home, who was prepared to take a bullet for me, is dead. I can't breathe. Not with Tony's dead eyes on me.

All I know is Stephano will come for me. He'll come for us . And if he doesn't, I'll rather die than be this man's captive. I'll do anything to make sure Franco Fiore will never touch either of us again.

I have no idea how long we jostle along. When the vehicle slows down to a crawl, I want to cry in relief. A rolling garage door opens, and the van cruises inside.

The door rattles closed again. This is it. We could be anywhere, but my best bet is a warehouse where they plan to get rid of extra bodies. The unknown woman has turned quiet, and I can't see much, even though my eyes have adjusted to the dark.

The driver kills the engine, and Franco stands, kicks me in the butt for good measure, and opens the back doors. He jumps out, but with the executioner's gun on me, I don't move. Carla moans again, and my heart goes out to her as she sees who Franco really is. We spoke about that night in the library, what Franco did before I arrived. Nothing untoward happened, but being in the library with all those men freaked her out. She is so young. I blink at tears. Welcome to our real world, Carla. And to think it's in our blood…

"Come on, future wife," Franco says as he fists my hair and forces me up.

I comply, wincing and scooting until I'm sitting and can hang my legs over the edge of the van. He shoves me off, and I stumble and hop but manage to keep my balance. The executioner tosses him the rifle, and Franco swings it in my direction. The driver's door slams shut, and I also recognize him too from that night in the library. He joins us with an automatic rifle in his hand.

I look around, taking in our surroundings. We're in an old warehouse, like I thought. Light battles to shine through the dirty windows lining the top meter of the high wall; the roof is speckled with holes where rain must drip through. In several places, the tin roof has peeled away from the bolts securing it to the ceiling beams, leaving gaping holes. Barrels are stacked in one corner with random old machinery, and the floor is a patchwork of stains that could be anything from oil to blood. The space has a pungent smell. Half mechanic workshop with oil and lubricant, but there is an acidic twang I can't place. It's abandoned, and a new layer of fear spreads over all the other layers.

What if Stephano doesn't come? Nobody is going to find us here.

The executioner roughly helps Carla down. She's still blindfolded and struggles to find her footing, but they haven't tied her legs. Franco has her by the hand and drag-walks her to stand three meters from me. The other woman comes next, and for the first time, I get a good look at her.

Her eyes are smeared with mascara, accentuating their crystal blue irises. Her thick blonde hair hangs in a messy disarray around her face. She's had the duct tape treatment, too, and Franco has her by the arm as he leans into her ear and whispers something I can't hear. I look on as tears stream down her cheeks. Our gazes meet, and then she nods at whatever Franco just said to her.

It's like déjà-vu from the day in Cannes. Here's a woman in trouble, just like Tasha was, but this time, our position is so dire, I can't see any other ending but death.

The executioner pulls a guitar case out of the van and flings it over his shoulder. Then comes another carrying case of sorts. He pokes the other woman in the ribs with a handgun, and she hustles along to a corner where he puts the case down on a barrel.

"Let me go get cleaned up for you, amorina . I might have flown in looking like this, but I know you prefer me to be myself."

Franco puts his gun down and starts to scratch at his cheeks, and I'm stunned as the fake beard peels off inch by inch. Then he starts to strip off his red plaid shirt, and I blink as I take in his body. He's toned and muscled, and his tattooed skin seems to ripple with every movement he makes. He is covered in tattoos of snakes which crowd around a wilting tree on which hangs one red apple, the only color on his skin.

If I could speak, I would remind him that I'm still married, with a husband I suspect has developed feelings for me as I have for him, but as if Franco reads my mind, he leers at me.

"Don't worry, amorina . By the time we're taking off for home, you'll be a widow."