“Not yet.” His raspy voice feels so loud in the ample room. “But I will.”
I feel the threat in his statement. I want to remind him that he was the main target of the shooting, so it might be something entirely related to him, not me. But my trembling lips don’t part—old habits die hard—because there’s a tiny part of me that keeps telling me I’m wrong.
“Why did you warn me?” he suddenly asks.
I frown. “You mean when I pulled your chest hair?” Better than his necklace, I could have broken it, and since he never takes it off, it must be of some value to him.
His grunts make me snort. But the mirth is short-lived.
“I…I don’t know,” is the most sincere answer I can give him. Because survival mechanism aside, I really have no idea.
Stockholm syndrome, perhaps?
Inner snort. Nah.
Chapter Six
ART
The next day, I wake up in the afternoon. The place beside me is empty, and my hand is free from the chains. When I enter the living room, there’s no one there, but I’m sure one of Luca’s men is outside the door.
The natural light coming through the windows invigorates me. Apricity. That’s what is called the uplifting, calming feeling of the sun warming one’s skin on a cold day. But it’s more than that; it’s comfort and reassurance to the spirit during bleak, sorrowful times. That feeling of warmth seeping into me, I’ve never experienced that with people. Tragic, really, but true.
I concentrate on the view from the window. It’s magnificent. We are so high up, I can see half of Manhattan. They blindfolded me again on my way here, so I didn’t know I was in a high-rise condo when we arrived last night. I enjoy the sight for a little while, then I go to the bathroom, and after washing my face and brushing my teeth, I check my phone. Shit! The battery is low; it’s already a miracle it lasted this long.
Me:
Hey, lovebird, I need a phone charger.
Fly:
Who’s this?
Me:
Your bestie
Fly:
Art? Did you escape?
Me:
No. I think I better stay put for now
Until I’m sure Mario is not out there waiting for me. Rami is checking for me. I’m going to owe him a kidney if it keeps going like this.
Fly: What kind of charger?
I tell him the brand.
But how can I disguise the charger so that the wacko doesn’t see it? Got it! I exchange a few more texts with Fly and then turn off the phone and slide it in its usual place.
When I come out, the living room is still deserted. My stomach is rumbling, so I move to the kitchen and open the fridge. I wish I could order food or just go for a bite. I can’t cook for shit. There’re only the Chinese leftovers from yesterday and a carton of orange juice. I take everything out and leave it on the counter. I need a coffee first. There’s no coffee machine, though. I open the white cupboards, but I don’t see one—there’s all my favorite junk food brands though. Is Luca Nero getting soft on me? I look down at the yellow bruise around my wrist and huff. The fuck he is.
I’m about to go ask whoever is outside the front door about the coffee machine when it opens on its own, and in comes the wacko with two takeaway cups. Is one boba?
“I hope one of those is for me,” I tell him with a groggy voice as he strides toward me.