SWNOVELS Chapter 5
The decrepit taverna where Calogero typically spends his afternoons is located on a dead-end street in the old part of Palermo. Except for the ravages of time and the relentless Mediterranean sun, the place hasn’t changed one bit in all the years. The shithole I remember from my youth still looks like a shithole, complete with paint peeling off its outside surfaces.
As I open the rickety door and step inside the gloomy interior, I’m hit with the stench of stale alcohol and the rancid smell of cigar smoke. In addition to that, drifting through the open back door and hanging heavily in the air, is an unmistakable scent of fish from the nearby market. Every seat in this putrid place is vacant. The establishment’s only patron is sitting at a small garden table set up on the patio. He’s in his early seventies and leaning over a spread-out newspaper, sipping coffee. Behind him, with their backs to the wall but only a few feet away, are two armed men. Their eyes follow me as I cross the empty taverna, heading toward the leader of the Sicilian Mafia.
“What business brings you here, Rafael?” Calogero lifts the coffee cup to his mouth; his eyes never leave the newspaper.
I take a seat across the table and take him in. He might act mighty and all-important in front of his men, but we both know the only reason he’s in this leadership position now is because the Family was in complete disarray after I killed the previous don.
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
My godfather finally looks up, but his gaze only lingers on my face for the briefest of moments before it flits away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I shake my head. Seeing this man wrings hatred in every fiber of my being.
In Italy, a godparent is as close as one can be next to a familial relationship. Some people even consider this bond stronger than true blood ties. When I was a kid, this man was my role model. After my father was killed, Calogero stepped in to fill his shoes. He took my mother, brother, and me under his protection. When Mom and Calogero got together, I never held it against either of them. I believed my godfather was a good man. But the truth is—he was a coward. He might be the don now, but he is still the same old chickenshit who did nothing when his predecessor declared my mother a traitor and executed her.
“Next time I catch one of your men in Catania trying to bribe the port workers, I’ll cut out his tongue, and you’ll find his dead body dumped at your front door.” I slam my hand on the surface of the table, making the coffee cup and the water glass rattle. “Do not fuck with me, cumpari. Or you may end up with your throat slit open just like Mancuso.”
“You are a disgrace to your blood and to the Family, Rafael,” he says through his teeth. His eyes drop to my left arm. “Swearing fealty to our enemies. If you had an ounce of decency, you would have removed their mark long ago.”
I lean forward, getting in his face. “It may come as a surprise to you, but some people own their choices.”
Calogero’s lips pull into a sneer. “You have some nerve. Walking in here as if you own the place, threatening me. One word from me, and you’ll never leave this place alive. And a week from now, someone will find your worthless hide washed up on the beach.” He tilts his head toward the bodyguards at his back, who immediately reach into their jackets, going for their weapons.
“Really?” I lift my hand, snapping my fingers.
A whooshing sound pierces the air. The two bodyguards hit the ground with a loud thump.
Another bullet hits my uncle’s cup on the table, and it explodes into minuscule fragments, coffee splashing his shocked face and soaking the newspaper.
“Words are the only thing you were ever good at.” I rise and straighten my jacket. “Keep your men away from my territory. This is my last warning.”
I can feel Calogero’s eyes on my back as I tread through the bleak taverna and step out onto the street. Men with boxes full of fish or vegetables under their arms hurry down the cobblestone road, either none the wiser about what happened just moments ago or, more likely, not even giving a shit about it. I will never understand why my godfather keeps frequenting this dump. Probably because it was where Don Mancuso conducted his business, and Calogero has always been a man of tradition.
Glancing at the second-story window across the way where another one of my men is holding position, I give him the nod and head toward the next street, to the outdoor market. It’s a roundabout route to where I parked my car, but I feel nostalgic.
When I was little, my father often brought me with him when he came to Palermo. As a soldier for Mancuso, he regularly reported to the don, and I spent hours running around the market—playing and often stealing fruit here and there—while Dad was holed up at that taverna. I would often slip a fig into my pocket when the seller wasn’t paying attention. An orange, if my hoodie was baggy enough to hide it. A cluster of white grapes that I then picked and ate while strolling between the stands. It’s not that we couldn’t afford the delicious treats. Being in charge of overseeing the collection of debts for the don, my father earned well. But I still stole whenever I could. It was a game for me.
I pause at the edge of the market, next to a stand with wicker baskets full of ripe red cherries. My eyes drift over the crowd of locals busying around—picking out produce, laughing. If I wanted to, I could buy this whole place. Every single thing that’s on display, along with the people. Too bad it wouldn’t bring even a speck of the excitement slipping that one little fig into my pocket elicited.
Turning away from the colorful stall, I put on my sunglasses and head through the market. I can feel everyone’s stares, but each contact lasts only a fraction of a moment before their eyes quickly dart elsewhere, and each person in my way zips from my path.
I’m used to their reaction. Even with shades partially obscuring my face, most of the damage is clearly visible.
Some of the things that happened after the blast on my last job for Dushku remain hazy. I recall coming to in an ambulance. Jemin was next to me, his gun pointed at the paramedic. Grabbing me under my arms, he basically dragged me out of the emergency vehicle and stuffed my ass into the back of his car. Then, I must have passed out again. During the drive, I regained consciousness a couple of times. The pain was excruciating. By the time we arrived at the rundown house in the suburbs, I was mostly checked out.
Jemin hollered and had two guys carry me inside a garage and deposit me on a workbench where a ‘doctor’ spent hours stitching me back together. I lived, despite the less-than-sterile conditions, miraculously avoiding any of my wounds getting infected. The final result, however, was a mess of badly patched muscles and warped skin.
It’s no wonder people can’t handle looking at me now. Their hushed murmurs mix with the cries of excited vendors. It’s a cacophony of contradiction. One I’m well and truly used to.
I pull out my phone and dial Onofredo, the head of security at my house.
“Boss?”
“How many times?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“How many times since this morning has our little guest tried to escape?”
“She hasn’t.”
I halt. “What has she been doing then?”
“Snooping. She went through the desk drawers and cabinets in your office. Even checked under the recliner cushion. Oh, and she found your safe and spent nearly half an hour trying to crack the combination.”
I feel the corners of my lips tilt upward. “And then?”
“She’s been reorganizing your bookshelves.”
“What?”
“Yeah. She pulled off every book, lined them up on the floor, and then started putting them back on the shelves in a different order. Otto checked on her fifteen minutes ago. She was still at it.”
“And you’re positive she didn’t try to slip away?”
“Absolutely.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Alright. Keep me posted.”
The crowd continues to part before me like the Red Sea as I meander between the stands. As usual, sellers are yelling, offering their goods, beckoning passersby to approach. A young woman to my left holds a wooden board laden with small pieces of cut cheese and cured meats, inviting customers to taste the samples.
“Signore?” she calls after me. “Vuole provare del prosciutto?”
I stop and glance over my shoulder. The girl is lifting the platter toward me, a flirtatious grin dancing across her lips. As soon as she eyes my face, though, she tenses. Her smile disappears, and she quickly looks away. Typical.
Continuing my stroll through the market, my mind turns to my beautiful hostage and how cute she looked wearing my shirt. Before I left this morning, I ordered the maid to throw Vasilisa’s clothes into the trash. I told myself it was punishment for her nerve to fuck with my life, but in truth, I simply enjoyed the primal possessiveness that overcame me when I saw her in my clothes. I wanted her implicitly marked as mine. I’ve never felt anything even remotely similar toward another woman before. With over a dozen men guarding the grounds of my property, even though she might not see them—as ordered—it doesn’t mean they won’t see her. And having my feisty princess dressed in my shirt is a big enough sign that she’s off-limits.
As I’m approaching the end of the market, my eyes fall on a stand with an assortment of local fruit. Peaches, nespole, and strawberries grace the wicker baskets in front of the seller who’s dealing with a customer. Off in the corner, there is a small bowl with a few green figs in it. I didn’t think they were yet in season. I hasten my step and adjust my route so I pass right next to the counter. And slip one of the figs into my pocket.
Vasilisa
I place the last book, Émile Zola’s Nana, on the lowest shelf and take a few steps back, observing my work. This morning, I removed all the books and sorted them by color. It took almost four hours. Most of the afternoon, I spent poking around the villa devoid of another living soul. Then, I came back into Rafael’s office and reorganized the books again, in alphabetical order by author’s name this time.
Reorganizing things is something I do when I’m stressed. It gives me a sense of control, even if it’s over something mundane and meaningless. And currently, nothing in my life feels like it’s within my control.
Last night, I barely slept a wink. I spent nearly all of it sitting on the huge bed, wrapped in a blanket and clutching a knife I swiped from the kitchen. Just in case the scumbag got the idea to blackmail me into having sex with him, as well. Only once dawn started breaking did I allow myself to succumb to a couple of hours of restless sleep. I woke up feeling like a wreck, and now I’m even worse off after moving all those tomes around. Twice.
There was no useful information whatsoever in the papers I found on Rafael’s desk. I came across something that looked like a lease to a warehouse in the name of the company I hacked—Delta Security—which I assume is his, but the contract was signed by someone else. Printouts of specifications for some sort of surveillance equipment. And a few random receipts for things I couldn’t decipher since they were in Italian.
But I did discover a safe that spiked my hopes behind one of the paintings. I couldn’t open it, though.
I still know practically nothing about the man who is holding me hostage. Nothing, except his name. And that he likes to read. A lot, based on the volume of books in here. Over nine hundred in total.
It’s the most unusual collection. Classic literature. Philosophy. Finance. Chemistry textbooks. Several tomes on human anatomy, with one in particular focused solely on the cardiovascular system. The twelve-volume set of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Even several books on horticulture and botany. Those really made my eyebrows rise. I’d never have pinned Rafael as a man interested in gardening, but he obviously is, since huge sections within these texts are highlighted, and the hardbacks seem well used.
There are also a few dozen novels. I would love to get lost in a book and alleviate some of my stress through a good story, but most of Rafael’s books are in Italian. The only two I stumbled upon that are in English are murder mysteries, and considering my situation . . . Yeah, no thank you.
Mm-hmm . . . Now that I think about it, Rafael hasn’t actually threatened me directly. My family, yes. But not me. There were zero mentions of physical harm—no beatings, chopping off of fingers, or threats of death if I didn’t do his bidding. Instead, he personally carried me upstairs, treated my wrists, and removed my shoes and socks before tucking me into bed. In his own bedroom, which he seems to have surrendered for my use. All of that after I tried to slice open his throat. I cringe, remembering his bandaged arm. I wounded him in self-defense, but I still feel bad for hurting him.
Rolling up the sleeves that have unwound once again, I pick up the empty plate from the lunch the maid brought me and head out of Rafael’s office.
Just like earlier, the house appears completely abandoned. No creatures stir as I pass by beautifully decorated rooms. It’s eerie as fuck, yet I can’t help but stop every once in a while to admire the rustic elegance of the decor. Even as someone with zero knowledge of interior design, I can clearly see that every piece of furniture and every accent was chosen to complement the mansion’s understated grace.
Every room has enormous French doors or windows that open wide and let in the warmth and intoxicating scents of the Mediterranean, making it feel like the house itself is a part of the natural landscape. Still, it’s an odd sensation to be inside such a gigantic space, entirely alone. Each time the wooden floorboards creak under my bare feet, I startle.
The vast kitchen greets me with haunting silence. There’s no sign of the maid who delivered my meal. The girl seemed utterly terrified as she tiptoed into the office and found me cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of thick hardcovers. She gaped at me for a few moments before leaving the plate on the pile of books and hurrying out as fast as her feet would carry her.
Maybe she thought I was crazy. Can’t blame her if she did. I doubt it’s normal behavior for a hostage to sort her captor’s books instead of trying to find a way to escape. But running is not an option for me. I’m certain Rafael was serious when he threatened to kill my family if I tried to get away. I could hear it—crystal-clear—in the tone of his voice.
He also said no one will bother me here, which has proved true so far. With that, I’m daring to believe that he’ll let me go after I fix the mess I’ve made. I’m still not certain how that actually happened, but whatever. I just want to get on with it and get it done as fast as possible so I can go home.
And I would do that if only “his tyrannical ass” would appear already. It’s ten in the evening! Goddammit.
I’m stuffing cold grilled zucchini into my mouth at the kitchen island when the sound of a car door being shut brings me out of my reverie. I rush toward the window that overlooks the driveway and lean over the sill, catching a glimpse of a huge male shape stepping inside the house.
He is finally back. Rafael. The almighty tsar of this outlandish prison.
Anger and irritation swirl inside my chest as I hurry across the kitchen toward the entrance hall. That son of a bitch spewed his malice, threatened to hurt my family if I don’t do his bidding, but then left me to worry the entire day, rotting in paradise.
When I reach the entry hall, Rafael has already ascended to the second-floor landing.
“Nice of you to finally show up!” I call after him.
He stops and slowly turns to face me. Even though he’s shrouded by shadows since the upper floor’s lights are off, I know he’s looking right at me. I know it instinctively—like a prey that can sense a predator’s deathly focus, realizing too late that some fates are impossible to escape.
“Eager to start fixing your handiwork?” His low, throaty voice fills the space between us.
“Extremely.”
“Go get my laptop from Guido. I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”
I watch his retreating form as he disappears around the corner, then curse and head toward the east wing, to what I’ve discovered is his brother’s apartment.
* * *
“This is a mess,” I mumble, staring at the laptop screen. Getting rid of the code I changed took less than ten minutes, but the catastrophe of missing strings and wrong commands I’m looking at can’t be the result of that. “It didn’t look like this the last time I visited your network.”
“Visited? Nice euphemism for breaking the law by hacking into an unauthorized system, Miss Petrova. My company isn’t a gallery exhibit.”
I look beyond the screen, my eyes focusing on his imposing frame leaning back in the recliner on the far side of the room. Other than the small desk lamp beside me, every light in the office is off. The faint glow that does reach him allows me to see that he’s in a three-piece suit again, but little of anything else.
“Says the guy who kidnaps women off the street,” I comment, then go back to inspecting the code.
Rafael was already lounging on that chair when I came in carrying the laptop. In his gruff voice, he told me to take a seat at the desk and get started. Since then, he’s remained nothing more than a dark shape. Silent, for the most part.
Is he brooding?
Planning my demise? Watching me?
What is he hiding?
“Do you have rabies, Rafael?”
“I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”
“You sure?” I glance at him again. “No fever, muscle spasms, hallucinations?” I briefly pause to give him time to respond, but he remains mute. “Because you seem to be experiencing sensitivity to light. Should I be concerned that you might pounce? Try to bite me?”
A deep laugh thunders from the shadows, rich and velvety, filling the space. My fingers hover above the keyboard as that sound swaddles me, like a thick, warm blanket.
“If I start experiencing those symptoms, I’ll let you know.”
Ugh. Not only does he wear suits and smell amazing, but he can also take a joke at his expense. It’s as if the universe got a hold of my “perfect man” checklist and started ticking off all the boxes. Too bad Rafael is a kidnapping, blackmailing bastard.
Still, I’m curious to know what he looks like.
“I’ll do what I can from here, but I’ll need to check your main server at some point. Is it in the house?”
“It’s at my corporate building, in Taormina.”
“I’ll need access to it.” My eyes dart to him over the laptop’s edge. “And I’ll need clothes. Your cleaning staff seem to have taken away my things. I want them back.”
“Yet, you appear to be handling that situation rather well. That’s my favorite shirt, by the way.” How he says it, with a hint of amusement in his tone, makes me wonder if there isn’t some hidden meaning behind his words.
“Is this some twisted payback? Weird psychological torture to make me feel more powerless or something?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy the sight of you in my clothes, Miss Petrova.”
I swallow, brushing off the silly excitement that swells within me from the husky, deep timbre of his voice. Like a lover seducing his partner into bed, each syllable strokes my skin, promising naughty carnal things.
“I will not go around wearing your tent-size shirts. Also, I need underwear, mister.”
“That can be arranged,” Rafael says and leans forward, placing his forearms on his knees. Suddenly, it’s twenty degrees hotter in here. I can feel his eyes on me, searing me from the darkness.
Taking a deep breath, I push up the sleeves of the borrowed shirt that keep slipping down my arms. Pulling up the diagnostic software, I set it to run a scan of the system, then grab a pencil from the desk drawer and start chewing on it.
“Why did you reorganize my bookshelves?”
“It’s therapeutic,” I mumble around the good old HB2 in my mouth while warnings pop up on the screen. The invoicing application in the accounting directory is flagged as non-responsive. The data storage system has a warning about updates not being installed. Even the maintenance system shows errors.
“This is not possible,” I murmur, gaping at the list that keeps growing. “My code was only designed to create a back door, not to fuck up the rest of the network.”
“Maybe someone else stumbled upon your ‘back door’ and decided to sabotage my company. My competition, most likely.”
I throw him a look. “You seem awfully calm about that fact.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? You’re going to fix everything.”
The pencil cracks between my teeth, so I take it out and refocus on the laptop screen. The scan is still running. My eyes wander to the single green fig lying on the desk by the pen holder. It was there when I came into the room, looking scrumptious as hell, tempting me to take a bite. I reach out and pick up the fruit. The moment my teeth break the smooth leathery skin, sweetness fills my mouth, and I moan.
“You like it?”
I glance at my kidnapper. “Yes. I’ve only tried figs once before, and those weren’t even half this tasty.”
“You know what they say—stolen fruit always tastes sweeter.”
“You stole it?” I ask, munching on the bell-shaped delicacy. “Why? You’re obviously loaded.”
“Old habits die hard.”
I arch an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. I shrug and get back to watching the diagnostic program run its course. Minutes pass. An hour. Rafael remains in his spot, observing me in silence.
It’s disturbing.
Unnerving beyond all measure.
I like it.
But feeling his steadfast stare is making me fidgety. The urge to glance at him magnifies with every passing second, and it’s getting harder to fight the pull.
Squirming in my seat, I grab the small pad of yellow sticky notes and start doodling on it with the ruined pencil. No one would ever accuse me of inheriting my mom’s artistic talent—Yulia is the lucky recipient of that—but I need something to focus on. Something that will keep my eyes from wandering to the massive shadow at the far end of the room.
I try drawing a bird, but I keep getting distracted by Rafael’s mere presence. Even as I succeed in not glancing his way once, my poor creation ends up looking like a horse.
In this deafening silence, while the scanning process steadily progresses, I swear that I can feel my captor’s eyes boring holes into my head. Crumpling the note, I throw it away and start another sketch. I draw the shape of a man sitting on a chair. Okay, it’s a stick figure, wearing pants, but the idea is the same. I add a jacket and a vest underneath, which ends up looking like an apron. Then, a big wide mouth full of sharp teeth. To finish, I draw a speech bubble.
Fix your mess, Miss Petrova!
A smile pulls at my lips as I tear the sticky note from the pad and attach it to the top right corner of the laptop screen. It’s really bad, actually. Yulia spent hours trying to teach me how to draw. Somehow she’s always managed to transform weird cylinder shapes into people’s faces, but I’ve never quite got the concept.
When I glance up, Rafael is still laid back in his recliner, arms crossed over his chest. I didn’t notice him removing his suit jacket, but it’s now lying on the armrest. The combination of the white shirt and dark vest he’s wearing makes his chest look even wider.
A single ding signals the end of the diagnostic scan, and the results window displays sixty-seven detected errors. More than half are flagged as critical.
“Good. The analytics are done. I’ll start with the accounting program first thing in the morning.” I close the laptop with a loud clap and bend to unplug the power cord.
“The laptop stays here. We’ll continue tomorrow evening. Same time.”
“And what am I supposed to do the whole day until then?”
“You’re free to do whatever you wish, as long as you keep our agreement in mind. Good night, Miss Petrova.”
Gritting my teeth, I rise and march straight to the door that leads from the office to the bedroom where I’ve been sleeping. And I make sure to slam it closed in my wake.
I head to the en suite bathroom to take a shower and brush my teeth, then put on another of Rafael’s fancy shirts, using it as a nightgown.
I’m somewhat comforted that Rafael doesn’t seem to want anything from me other than fixing his damn computer system. Aside from those few comments about my clothes, he hasn’t said or done anything that tells me he’s interested in me.
It’s strange. I’m so used to guys trying to get me into their bed within minutes of meeting me. Rafael’s apparent indifference has left me feeling slightly confused.
Maybe I’m simply not his type?
Good!
Right?
I fall asleep with a kaleidoscope of images occupying my mind. Lines of code. The big blue expanse of the sea and the sun reflecting off the glistening waters. And the concealed face of a man watching me from a darkened corner.