‘We’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes; the bellboy is on his way up now to collect your things, so I suggest you get packing.’
‘You were saying?’ There was a wry smile on Anton’s face once they were left alone. ‘I don’t think I have much choice other than to leave, Lydia.’
‘I know.’
Sitting down on the rumpled bed, raking a hand through her hair, Lydia let out a long breath, watching as Anton peeled open a massive leather suitcase and started throwing things inside. Divine, superbly ironed shirts were given the same treatment as socks, tossed into the suitcase with no thought for the journey. No doubt he would be happy to let someone else unpack for him when he arrived in Rome. She watched with mounting despair as he walked around the room, erasing every trace of himself—tightening the stopper on his cologne and throwing it into a toiletry bag, gathering cufflinks and comb and putting them in his case. His progress was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Lydia moved to the bed, her hand edging under the pillow to feel for her gun as Anton peered through the peephole.
‘It is the bellboy,’ Anton informed her, and waited for Lydia to give the nod before he opened the door.
‘I’m not quite ready,’ Anton informed him. ‘You’ll have to come back—I’ll ring down when I’m ready for you.’
‘I can pack for you, sir.’ Lydia could hear the conversation taking place, could feel the whole world pushing her to make a decision. These last, vital minutes alone with Anton were slipping away. ‘I was told there’s a car waiting for you and to bring your belongings straight down.’
‘Fine,’ Anton snapped, clearly not remotely impressed with Detective Miller’s haste to get him to the airport. ‘My suits need to be packed—there is a holder…’
‘I’ll find it, sir.’
‘And my shaving stuff,’ Anton added, and as the bellboy set to work he crossed the room back to Lydia and resumed the conversation. ‘Talk to me Lydia,’ he insisted. ‘Tell me what you are thinking?’
But it wasn’t that easy. Unlike Anton, who was so used to endless staff attending to his needs that he could probably carry on making love while a maid opened the curtains, Lydia felt incredibly uncomfortable revealing her feelings with anyone else present. She was acutely aware of the bellboy’s presence, and despite Kevin’s assurances she was still wary of him. She watched his every move as he zipped up the suit holder and gave a helpless shake of her head, her eyes gesturing the reason she couldn’t talk now.
‘Could you get my shaving stuff?’ Anton asked, pressing some money into the young man’s hand. ‘And maybe take your time?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Alone again, she faced him.
‘I’m being silly,’ Lydia whispered. ‘I just thought if we could have a couple of days here—if I could show you where I live, the things that are important to me—maybe then…’ She couldn’t elaborate, couldn’t paint a picture of the future without knowing if Anton wanted it as much as her.
‘We can do all that, Lydia,’ Anton said softly and hope flared in her eyes. ‘But when the time is right…’ His voice trailed off and Lydia stiffened, her eyes narrowing as the bellboy came out of the en suite bathroom.
‘You could always stay on here for a couple of days.’
The bellboy’s voice, intruding on this most personal conversation, had Lydia’s hand tightening like a reflex action around the gun under the pillow. Anton swung around, clearly appalled at the intrusion. But even as her hand gripped the cool metal of her weapon Lydia knew she couldn’t use it.
The bellboy’s semi-automatic pistol was already pushing into the back of Anton’s neck, and, no matter how rapid her response, she knew that the bellboy’s would be quicker—and probably fatal.
‘In fact, why don’t you ring down and tell your assistant you’ve decided to spend the next few days in bed with your prostituta?’
For the first time he addressed Lydia, shouting his orders as he kept the gun trained on Anton. ‘You. Over there. Sit over there.’
He waved his free hand towards the window and in that split second Lydia knew she had to comply—knew that for now she had to obey, do exactly what he said. Only when the situation was calmer could she begin to control it—from the mad look in the bellboy’s eyes, Lydia knew he wouldn’t have any hesitation in using the gun, and probably not just on Anton. Her hand loosened its grip on her own gun beneath the pillow, taking some small comfort as she crossed the room that he didn’t check the bed, didn’t remove the weapon.
‘Strap her hands behind her back.’ Thrusting a roll of tape at Anton, he gave more orders.
‘Do it, Anton.’ Lydia said firmly, determined to keep things calm, and something in her voice must have reached him.
Anton reluctantly took the tape and bound her wrists, his hands supremely gentle, his fingers giving her just one tiny reassuring squeeze before their captor became impatient.
‘Now you ring your assistant,’ the bellboy spat, his Italian accent pronounced, sweat pouring down his face as he jabbed Anton with the gun, towards the telephone. ‘And tell them you’re staying on with your slut.’
‘What the hell do you want?’ Anton snarled, refusing to pick up the phone, seemingly oblivious to the appalling danger of the situation, refusing to do anything until he got an answer. ‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you even recognise your own family?’
‘Family?’ Anton gave a superior derisive scoff. ‘You?’
Lydia watched the nervous tic in the young man’s left eye, could see the anger and hatred twisting his features. She wanted so badly to warn Anton not to inflame him, not to fuel this crazed man’s anger, but even a single word from her lips could prove dangerous, could cause enough panic in their captor for him to pull the trigger. So instead she bit her lip, held in the words she wanted to say. Instead she mentally willed Anton not to antagonise him.
But clearly Anton’s mind wasn’t feeling particularly receptive. His mouth curled in a superior sneer as he eyed his captor with loathing. ‘You’re no Santini.’
‘My nephew Dario is, though.’
Up to that point Lydia hadn’t really been scared. Her actions were being fuelled by pure adrenaline, her professional mind too busy working overtime, assessing the situation, to really process fear, But watching the colour drain out of Anton’s face as the bellboy responded to his taunt terrified her. Seeing the strong, immovable man literally pale before her, seeing the flash of panic in Anton’s navy eyes, Lydia caught the first whiff of her own terror. And as their captor introduced himself further she realised that the threat to Anton had nothing to do with politics or even money, but was in fact born from the most dangerous vendetta of all—pure, unadulterated hatred.
‘I’m Rico,’ the bellboy sneered. ‘I’m your son’s uncle.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘THEY’RE NOT going to believe me if I suddenly say that I’m staying on.’ All the certainty had gone from Anton’s voice. His eyes swung to Lydia’s and she saw his jaw tighten as he looked at her, saw the apology in his eyes as he held her gaze, and she knew that he felt responsible, knew at that moment that Anton was terrified—not for him, but for her. ‘If I ring down and suddenly say that I’m staying in Melbourne for a few days, then they’re going to know that something’s up.’
‘Then you’d better make them believe you,’ Rico snarled.
‘There’s a car waiting…’ Anton attempted to argue, and Lydia knew she had to step in, knew she had to calm things down—and quickly.
‘Tell them you’ve changed your mind.’ Running a dry tongue over her lips, Lydia spoke to Anton, relieved to see that Rico was nodding as she urged Anton to follow his orders. ‘Make it sound convincing—if they argue, tell them it’s none of their damn business. That’s what you’d usually do.’
She watched as his reluctant hand moved for the phone, and knew that somehow she had to get a message out. Anton’s arrogance might cause some annoyance, but it wouldn’t come a
s any surprise, wouldn’t necessarily ring alarm bells. Somehow she had to let her colleagues know that they were in desperate trouble up here. Taking a deep breath, she weighed up the risk of inflaming Rico further against the horror of being left here alone and no one even knowing.
‘And tell them that we want some drinks sent up.’
‘No one comes up!’ Rico screamed, furious at her suggestion, but Lydia held her ground, carried on talking over his hysterical ranting.
‘It will sound more convincing. Tell them you want drinks sent up but that we’re not to be disturbed—that’s what you usually do. Anton, you have to make them believe us. Tell them I want a strawberry daiquiri just as you would normally.’
‘She’s right.’ Rico was nodding frantically again, saying the words over and over. ‘She’s right…’ Waiting for Anton to pick up the phone, he gave his orders. ‘Tell them to send the car away and that you’re staying on. Tell them to bring up drinks, but to leave them outside. You’re not to be disturbed. And you are to put the phone on speaker so I can hear the conversation.’ His voice was growing louder with each and every word. ‘So that I know you are not playing games! Talk to them like they’re dirt, the way you always do!’ Following Anton’s gaze, clearly sensing his weakness, Rico crossed the room and held the gun to Lydia’s head. ‘Do as I say or she gets it.’
Lydia could feel her heart thumping in her chest as Anton’s snobby, derisive voiced reeled off his orders—his words so coolly delivered there was no way the receptionist could possibly envisage the sheer terror on the other end of the line, no way she could even begin to fathom just how vital each word was. Lydia winced as Rico pressed the gun harder into her temple and the voice of the receptionist filled the room.
‘How much longer will you be staying, Mr Santini?’ The receptionist’s purring voice filled the room.
‘A day—maybe two,’ Anton answered. ‘I do not need the car—tell Mr Miller that I am grateful for his offer, but I will not be needing the car to take me to the airport. I will make my own arrangements.’
‘Certainly.’
‘And send up some drinks; just leave them outside—two coffees…’ Lydia felt her throat tighten at his unwitting error, but thankfully Anton retrieved it easily. ‘Actually, make that one coffee and one strawberry daiquiri—and make sure it is made properly, not like that poor effort last night.’
‘I’ll have those brought up directly.’
‘And I am not to be disturbed. Is that clear?’
Whatever her answer was, they didn’t get to hear it. Rico crossed the room and slammed his hand down on the phone, terminating the call. He nudged Anton none-too gently across the room and instructed him to sit.
‘Hands behind your back,’ he ordered.
‘I might need to get the door,’ Anton attempted, but Rico was having none of it.
Holding the gun with one hand, he bound Anton’s wrists together with the tape, only putting the gun down when his wrists were secured and then carefully checking his handiwork. He reinforced the tape to ensure that Anton couldn’t free himself, and in an appalling act of defiance slammed his fist into Anton’s face.
Lydia stifled a scream, watching as Anton took the blow as if he somehow deserved it, not a sound escaping from his lips. Her eyes widened in sickening horror as she saw the jagged welt Rico’s ring had left on his cheek, watched as blood poured down his face and onto his white bathrobe, and she winced as Rico’s rough hands taped her ankles to the chair, and then repeated the humiliating act on Anton.
‘What do you want, Rico?’ Anton asked, spitting out the blood that had spilled into his mouth.
But Rico was clearly tired of talking—clearly didn’t feel he needed to explain anything. He just headed across the room and sat on the bed, his gun pointing at both of them, and even if she couldn’t see it Lydia could feel the hatred blazing in Rico’s eyes.
The wait for their drinks to arrive was endless and the silence deafening as Rico’s eyes bored into them. A thousand questions raced through Lydia’s mind—questions she needed answers to. Who was Rico? Was he really related to Anton? And, most importantly of all, why did he hate him so much?
‘You’ll be okay.’ Anton’s voice was a low, gentle whisper.
‘Shut up, Santini,’ Rico called, but Anton wasn’t to be deterred.
‘It’s me he wants, not you.’
Why? She didn’t say it, but her eyes begged the question. She dragged them away, focussed instead on his shoulder, hoping that Anton would take the hint and not answer just yet—they needed Rico to calm down, for his agitation to abate a touch before they spoke further.
A soft knocking on the door had them all jumping. Rico shot out of his seat and stood over them as Lydia’s eyes darted to Anton’s. She almost wept with relief when Maria’s voice filtered into the room.
‘Your drinks are outside, Mr Santini.’
‘Thank you!’ Rico hissed in Anton’s ear. ‘Say thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ Anton called.
‘Do you need anything else, sir?’
‘Nothing,’ Rico breathed, pushing the gun into Lydia’s face until Anton repeated the word.
‘Nothing.’
A tense silence followed. Rico stood rigid over them, ears on alert until finally the sound of the lift pinging told him that the ‘maid’ had gone. For the first time since he’d produced the gun Rico relaxed. He flicked on the television, pulled open the bar fridge and lined up the contents. He was ramming chips into his mouth, pouring spirits down his throat. Lydia prayed that he would continue, infinitely grateful that they were in the most luxurious suite in the hotel and that Anton’s bar fridge wasn’t the usual mini-version, but held full bottles of liquor that would hopefully anaesthetise him.
Seconds ticked away like minutes.
Minutes ticked away like hours.
As the sound of a children’s cartoon filled the room and Rico laughed loudly, clearly engrossed, finally Lydia voiced her question. ‘Why?’
‘He’s sick,’ Anton said quietly. ‘I’ve never met him before, Lydia. I just know of him.’
‘Why does he hate you?’ Lydia said quietly. ‘If he’s never even met you?’
‘I know his sister.’
He didn’t need to elaborate. One look at his stricken face and Lydia guessed the truth: the one woman who’d touched him, the one woman who’d got close to him, seemed to be wedged between them now, inextricably linked to this appalling nightmare.
‘Cara?’ Her voice was hoarse as she whispered the word, and she closed her eyes for a second when he nodded. ‘And who’s Dario?’
And she watched—watched as his eyes darted, watched as he paused for just a second too long before answering. And she knew, because it was her job to know, that even if Anton wasn’t lying, he wasn’t telling her the entire truth.
‘Dario is Cara’s son.’
So many questions she hadn’t even voiced were answered then—such as why Rico had always spoken in English: no doubt he hadn’t wanted Anton to recognise his local dialect, hadn’t wanted to give Anton even a hint as to who he was.
There was plenty of time to think—to go over Rico’s abhorrence of her in the restaurant, his reluctance to deliver her bags, his disinclination to leave the room that first morning. The hunch she had tried so hard to rationalise, to explain to her colleagues, was easy to explain now, with the benefit of hindsight.
Helpless, in abject misery, she watched the man who sat before her—the man who hour upon hour took without complaint Rico’s demented beatings. She watched that beautiful face darken with bruises, his astute eyes become so swollen they were practically closed, trying to work out how to get them out of there safely, trying to keep her emotions in check as that dignified head tried to stay up, as somehow, despite the appalling situation, despite the appalling evidence to the contrary, each time Rico finished his vile tirades, Anton would mouth to her that he was okay; as still he tried to comfort her.
With s
upreme effort she pushed her personal feelings aside, forced her exhausted mind to focus, to concentrate solely on ending this nightmare, on saving the life of the man she had been entrusted to protect.
The ringing of the telephone was intrusive, and when Rico ordered Anton to answer he pulled it over to where they sat and pressed the receiver to Anton’s ear. Lydia felt her heart hammering in her chest, anticipating Rico’s vile reaction when he realised that the police knew of their plight.
‘They want to speak to you.’
‘Me?’ Rico ripped the phone from Anton and his demented rage returned. He cursed into the receiver, slamming it down, and then headed for the bed. He rocked against the bedhead, the black of the gunmetal facing his nemesis, and for the first time Lydia heard him speak in Italian. But the beauty of the language was entirely lost as Rico spat out his churning, hate-fuelled words.
‘Dicono che vogliano parlare, vogliano negoziare!’
And even if Lydia’s Italian only ran to naming pastas she picked up on what Rico was saying—knew what her colleagues would have said to him.
‘Talk to them,’ Lydia implored. ‘They can help you.’
‘How they know?’ Rico demanded of her.
‘They just do, Rico,’ Lydia said calmly. ‘And now you have to deal with that fact. So talk to them—tell them what it is you want.’
‘There is nothing to talk about,’ Rico spat. ‘Because there is nothing to negotiate.’
On and on the phone rang, till even Lydia wished it would it stop. Wished that the people outside would just go away, would let her sleep, would let her close her eyes on this nightmare for even a moment.
Darkness filled the room, but Lydia knew it would end soon. Knew because her eyes were fixed on the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, her head lolling from side to side in exhaustion, her body jolting each time she succumbed. Her eyes tracked the moon on its inevitable path through the interminable night, watching as it somehow found the only cloud in the night sky and momentarily dipped behind it. That same moon had guided her thoughts last night, the same moon that would rise again tomorrow—and all Lydia knew was that she wanted to be there to see it, wanted to live her life.
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