by LJ Vickery
It looked, however, like all her Mata Hari preparations were for naught. Nothing was happening―as far as she could see―in the giant, almost completely dark house. She’d just have to give up and hand the information over to the police…or, if the cops laughed her off, to Wiley’s guys.
She slowly drove toward the house once more, but this time, two men in black ran from behind the gate and positioned themselves in front of her car. What the hell? She stomped on the brakes. Were they trying to get themselves killed? Solina shook her head and prepared to drive around them, but one moved to circumvent her path, while the other came up to her window.
Just as Solina realized there might be something sinister in their actions, the guy nearest to her gave credence to her concern. He pulled a gun and pointed it directly at her head.
“Out,” he barked, pressing his mouth up against the glass. “Now.”
Solina thought of flooring it, but the idea of running over the man in front of her was more than she could stomach. Perhaps she could back up really fast. Her hand went to the gearshift, but the man at her window spoke again.
“If you put that in anything but park, your brains are going to end up all over your windshield,” he snarled.
Solina gulped. Perhaps it was better to do what he asked.
“Putting it in park,” she told him, her voice trembling. Her shaking hand obeyed.
“Now, get out,” he commanded, gesturing with the gun.
Solina cracked open the door and reached for her bag.
“No bag,” he growled.
“But I—”
“No bag,” he repeated. “You have three seconds to get your ass out here.”
Solina abandoned her tote and slowly stepped out the door. “What do you want?” she asked. “I don’t have much money, but you can take everything I have.”
He laughed darkly. “The boss doesn’t want your money.”
“Boss?” she questioned. That didn’t sound good.
“Yeah.” He gestured with his gun toward the house. “You’re about to meet him. Now, move.”
If she attempted to escape, would the man risk firing in such a residential neighborhood? She thought not, but the gun could have a silencer on it. She didn’t know what one of those actually looked like. In gangster movies, they were large cylinders attached to the gun barrel, but these days, who knew? Maybe these models didn’t make noise, even without them. She couldn’t take that chance.
Solina came completely out of the car, hands raised.
“Hands down, bitch. If anybody’s looking, we’re just two friends headed down the driveway.” He tucked his firearm close to his body so it couldn’t be seen, then called over to his friend. “Drive her car up to the house and bring her stuff in. We’ll see if what the boss wants is in her bag.”
He did as he was told, while Solina’s feet traveled in the prescribed direction.
She was in some deep shit.
They entered a tall, oversized foyer that should definitely come with a butler, but nobody stepped forward to meet them. The house was elegant, but―to Solina’s exacting eye―unkempt. Everything appeared to be extremely costly, several pieces of seventeenth-century English furniture were on display, but each sported a heavy coating of dust. And the marble floor lay thick with muddy boot prints.
What had she gotten herself into? With the level of evil she’d already encountered, she felt pretty sure the note hadn’t been fake. The fifty percent of her brain not frozen with terror told her that a captive surely lived in the basement.
When she paused, her abductor grabbed her arm and propelled her toward a partially open door. Her feet stumbled in that direction, and when it was thrust open, she got her first glimpse of “the boss”.
He stood from the desk and beckoned her forward. “Miss Dalat, I presume? My name is Pietro Anestis.” His arctic voice did nothing to comfort her, and neither did his appearance. His thinning, dark hair lay in greasy clumps across his head, while his florid face and loose jowls spoke of dissipation and high blood pressure. Here was a man who overindulged…in many things.
Solina swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t come forward and she’d have to touch his hand. “How do you know my name?”
“That’s easy. You purchased something that belongs to me.” He sat back down and indicated for her to sit across from him. “And I want it back.”
“What could I possibly have that you want?” she bluffed. “I was just driving through your neighborhood, admiring the architecture.”
He barked a humorless laugh. “At night? And you just happened to pick this house to drive by a bunch of times?” His eyes narrowed. “I know you have my box, Miss Dalat. And I mean to have it back. Without argument.”
Should she continue to remain clueless, or should she fess up? Her options sucked, but she was saved from having to answer as the man who’d pointed the gun at her interrupted.
“Here’s her bag, boss.” He proffered her tote to him. “And she was pretty interested in taking it with her when we got her out of the car.”
“Dump it,” the boss ordered.
The contents of her bag quickly fell to the floor, where minion number one poked through it with his foot. “Some clothes, a few snacks, her phone.”
“Destroy that.”
His foot came down on her device with a resounding crunch.
Solina groaned. There went her one means of communication.
“What else?” the man in charge asked.
“A wallet, a calendar book, toothbrush, deodorant.” He snagged something with his foot and lifted it from the pile. A pair of her nicer underwear wavered on his boot. “Sexy.” He plucked them from his foot and held them to his nose, taking a sniff.
Gross.
“But no wooden box,” his boss stated, ignoring the boorish behavior.
“Nope,” the pervert answered, tucking her panties into his coat pocket. “And we searched the car. There’s nothing in there, either.”
The boss turned to regard her. “So, Miss Dalat. It seems we’ve arrived at an impasse. You either tell me the location of the box, so I can send you, in one piece, to join my sister in the basement, or you refuse to give me the information and I make your life very unpleasant.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, punching one into the other.
Would he really hurt her? Solina looked across the desk into cold, beady eyes and knew he would without hesitation. That wouldn’t serve any purpose, but she needed to buy time to figure out how to get herself, and the maniac’s sister, to safety.
So she gave a partial truth.
“It’s at my house,” she told him, lowering her eyes to his desk, playing the obsequious card. She’d always been good at that with her father.
With her gaze down, Solina couldn’t help but notice the ledgers that lay in front of him. Even upside down, having done her own accounting for so long, she recognized the large amounts of dollars listed, both debits and credits, next to items denoted as “C Shipment” or “H Shipment”.
Interesting.
Seeing where her gaze traveled, he slammed the books shut, shoving them into his top drawer, ending any further speculation she might have.
“Where at your home?” the man demanded.
“I…I’m not sure where I left it,” she stumbled. “Maybe my bedside table? Or perhaps in the living room?”
He turned to his two henchmen. “Go. Do whatever it takes to find it. And call me as soon as you do. I’ll escort our guest to the cellar.”
The two men left. The boss arose to all of his five-foot, seven-inch stature, if Solina had to guess. “You’ll join my sister until I ascertain my men have the box. If they don’t find it, you’ll be dragged back in here to see if we can persuade your forgetful brain to cooperate.”
“And when they do find it?” Solina dared to ask.
He laughed, a dry, nasty sound. “I’m not sure yet, Miss Dalat. I guess that depends on whether I determine if there’s a use for you in the future.”
Solina swallowed back any additional questions. His answers wouldn’t be to her liking anyway.
She managed to precede him out of his office without being touched, but as soon as they reached the huge foyer, he took her upper arm in an unrelenting grip. Leading her to a closed door, he opened it and marched her into a long, poorly lit hallway.
“Last door on the left,” he barked, practically throwing her that way. Perhaps he didn’t like personal contact as much as she loathed his touch.
She slowed as she neared her destination, looking around. Three doors on her left, two on the right, with a large bow window at the very end of the hall. Not much promise for escape.
Solina’s shoulders slumped. To the basement it was. At least she’d be able to meet the writer of the note and get a handle on why all this crazy stuff was happening. Fat lot of good it would do her if she couldn’t get out. And there would be no big, swooping rescue any time soon. Wiley was gone for the next seven days.
She’d have to figure this out on her own.
Her captor waited for Solina to open the designated door before he leaned in and flicked on a light switch. The stairs were fairly intricate for a set that led to the bowels of the home, but then again, almost everything about the place was over the top. She padded down the solid oak treads, following the carved, spindled railing to the bottom.
“To the left.” He prodded her in the back. “I can’t wait for my sister to see her new cellmate.” A sound that might pass for a chuckle crossed his thin lips.
Refusing to drag her feet to avoid being nudged again, Solina approached a sturdy door. No padlock graced its exterior, so the only lock would be the one in the doorknob.
Good to know.
Solina had never attempted to pick a lock, but there was a first time for everything. She hesitated. What did he want her to do now?
Gripping her shoulders, which were higher than his because she had at least two inches on the man, he hauled her to one side and fit a key he’d removed from his pocket into the door. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Stay right there until I tell you.” He paused for her answer.
If she turned to run, could the slightly paunchy kidnapper catch her? Even though the two men who had previously detained her were en route to her house, could she guarantee there wouldn’t be more henchmen lurking about the property? It seemed better that she bide her time and pretend complicity. Showing a strong hand too early might not end well.
She nodded to the vile man, giving him agreement.
“Good decision,” he hissed. “Mary,” he hailed when he entered the room. “It’s Pietro. I have a surprise for you.”
No answer.
“Now, now,” the man continued. “Show some enthusiasm, dear sister. Your surprise is something you’ve been waiting for,” he goaded almost gleefully.
Still, Mary didn’t reply. What was that all about?
“Hah. Cat got your tongue?” he taunted. “Fine. Miss Dalat?” He leaned out and beckoned Solina forward.
She slowly walked through the open door and her mouth fell open. Her gaze landed on a quiet, diminutive woman on the sofa staring at her with large, gray eyes, before Solina looked around at the cavernous, semi-civilized room. The prison was a combination basement/bedroom/living room.
How awful.
A wooden floor had clearly been constructed to cover parts of a rough cellar surface, but the walls remained raw concrete―albeit draped here and there with stray blankets and tapestries to dull their coldness. A large, king-sized bed stood to one side of the room, and a couch, where the woman sat, and two chairs were grouped on the other. They faced a large-screen television, currently depicting an outdoor scene of swaying green grasses and wildflowers under a bright blue sky. The woman wasn’t watching, however. It was apparent she was reading a book, which currently lay, face up, on her lap.
“Solina Dalat, meet my sister, Mary Anestis. She’s the bane of my existence, but unfortunately, her death would keep me from the money that is rightfully mine, so I keep her here.”
Solina couldn’t hold back a shudder, addressing Mary. “How awful you must feel,” she murmured.
“Not as awful as she’s going to.” Pietro rubbed his hands. “Wait for it, Miss Dalat.” He cleared his throat theatrically. “Mary? Miss Dalat was the buyer of your wooden puzzle box, so all hope is lost, my dear,” he gloated. “As you can see, I’ve won again.”
The woman put a hand to her mouth, as if to contain a cry, but her tear-filled eyes gave her distress away.
Chapter Twenty-One
With one final, sinister laugh, Pietro left the room and slammed the door, leaving Solina with the silently sobbing woman.
“Hey. Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in no time.” Solina crossed the room and sat down next to her solitary companion, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Mary looked up with tear-drenched eyes and shook her head fiercely.
“Sure, we will,” Solina soothed. “If not by our own devices, then certainly in a week when my boyfriend gets home.” She attempted to give the woman an optimistic smile. “He’s a badass ex-military dude who works for a company called S.O.S. You know what that means, right?”
The woman only blinked, but at least her tears had stopped.
Solina went on. “That means they save people. Their job is search and rescue. And they’re really good at it.” Solina didn’t know if that were true, but they wouldn’t have a business otherwise, would they? “And you can bet, one hundred percent, that he’ll never stop until he rescues me…and that means rescue us.” Solina felt bolstered by her own words. It was true. She knew Wiley would turn over the entire state to find her.
But she’d been so stupid, and mentally vowed to play everything smarter from here on out. She hadn’t left behind a note. The only thing he’d have to go on, if it remained on the shelf by the time he got back, was the puzzle box. She’d only bought a few hours with her ruse that it was at her house. As soon as his two men found no trace of the wooden treasure, they’d call the boss. And she knew Pietro wouldn’t be gentle as he tried to get its true location out of her. She saw the bruises on Mary’s face. How much pain could she stand, and would it be worth it in the end?
She’d tackle that tough question when it arose. After all, if her house was ransacked, wouldn’t Wiley have a way of lifting fingerprints and tracing the perpetrators? It always worked on TV.
But first things first. She needed more of the story from Mary. Why was the older woman down here, and how did it involve Solina?
“Mary, we need to talk,” she said.
Her companion drew a cutting motion across her neck and pointed to her mouth, shaking her head.
“Oh. You can’t speak.” Solina finally got it. “Is it from an illness or something?” She had heard that voice loss could be psychosomatic due to emotional trauma.
Mary shook her head again and pulled a scarf away from her neck, pointing. An old wound cut across the woman’s neck, and what a vicious thing it was. The puckered, six-inch mark lay thick against the woman’s creamy skin, angry with scar tissue.
“So, an accident,” Solina guessed.
Mary’s eyes went cold. She reached for a pad and pen on the table to her side, then scribbled furiously. She held it out to Solina.
Not an accident. Pietro did this to me when he was seven.
“Seven,” Solina repeated. “That’s young.”
She nodded and wrote again, tipping the page toward Solina when she finished.
I was fifteen.
She flipped the paper back and continued while Solina read over her shoulder.
Old enough to know he couldn’t be trusted. But I was always so hopeful. And when he wanted to race bikes down the back path one day, I happily agreed. Her face hardened as she wrote. He’d strung a wire across the path, exactly at throat level. She made a pained grunt. He always possessed an odd combination of brilliance and evil, knowing the exact height necessary to…
Mary hesitated before beginning a new sentence.
I’m sure his true goal was to cut my head off, but he didn’t get his wish. I wasn’t a daredevil, so my speed wasn’t great enough for the wire to be the guillotine he wanted. Luckily, a couple of the ground staff were nearby, witnessed what happened, and were able to keep me alive as they called for an ambulance.
Mary looked up and closed her eyes upon the memory.
“So your vocal chords were cut.” Solina’s gut roiled. What kind of an evil bastard would do such a thing? And to his sister!
Among other things, Mary wrote. I had to have several reconstructive surgeries for my trachea, larynx, and removal of my thyroid. The wire went so deep, it even damaged my esophagus.
Solina was horrified. “Why did your brother hate you so much?”
Mary scribbled some more.
It wasn’t just me. It was everybody who opposed him in any way, or whom he perceived as a threat to what he considered his place in the household.
Solina wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she asked anyway. “So what current scheme has us both prisoners in the basement?”
Mary shook her head for the third time.
It began when my father died…
Solina’s companion went on to write about the intricacies of her father’s will, how Pietro had brilliantly circumvented the document by having Mary confined, yet kept her available when her signature was required to access funds held in trust.
He first made me captive in my bedroom, replacing all the staff little by little so that no questions were raised by long-term employees. I believe he gave them all hefty severance packages to keep them from questioning what was going on.
When he deemed it necessary, he gave me papers to sign, requesting more than the standard allowance I normally received for household operating expenses. With this arrangement, he was as happy as Pietro could ever be.
When Mary didn’t write more, Solina asked, “How did you end up in the cellar?”