‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ Her strangled plea dragged Rico out of his fitful slumber.
‘Then go,’ Rico taunted. ‘Go where you sit!’
‘Please,’ Lydia begged. ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Just go here,’ Anton said softly, his lips swollen, his eyes two slits in his ravaged face. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. There is nothing you can do.’
‘Please,’ Lydia begged again, noting with quiet relief that if Anton believed her, then surely Rico would too. ‘I have to go to the bathroom, Rico. Please let me. It’s my time, you can’t just leave me sitting here…’
From her training she knew that if one thing could make Rico weaken it was her femininity—knew that a man like Rico wouldn’t be able to deal with it.
‘Periodi mestruali,’ Anton snapped as Rico’s eye tic resumed. ‘Let her go to the bathroom, for God’s sake.’
Offering a silent prayer of gratitude, Lydia stared at Anton as Rico untaped her arms, barely registering the pain as the tape tore at her flesh, just pleading with her eyes as Rico moved to her legs. Lydia mouthed one single word—Wait.
Finally in the bathroom, Lydia knew she had seconds, maybe a minute to work. Eyeing the contents of the bathroom, the tools she could work with, she turned on the taps as she sat on the loo, mindful of the semi-open door, knowing that Rico was timing her.
Picking up Anton’s razor, she set to work, shaving her wrists, disposing of the tiny invisible hairs, barely wincing as the blade nicked into her dry flesh, and as she flushed the loo she grabbed at one of the tiny bottles Anton so despised, squeezing a slug of hair conditioner onto her wrist and massaging it in.
‘Out!’ Rico shouted, bursting through the door, impatience etched in every feature. He dragged her back to the hateful chair by her hair, rough hands forcing her to sit before layering the tape around her wrists. He paused when the phone rang and, Lydia noted with relief, forgot to tie her ankles.
‘Why don’t you answer it?’ Lydia suggested. ‘Surely it can’t hurt just to hear what they have to say?’
‘I don’t care what they say!’ Rico shouted.
‘If you really don’t care,’ Anton said coolly, his voice a thinly veiled taunt, ‘then you’ll answer it.’
And finally, just when Lydia was sure he wouldn’t, Rico gave in, knocking the receiver out of its cradle and putting the phone onto speaker.
‘Rico!’ John Miller’s voice boomed over the speakerphone, imploring Rico to calm down, to listen to reason. ‘We understand you’re upset…’
Lydia tuned out, concentrating instead on her wrists. The hair conditioner she had applied, the smooth skin she had created, was allowing her a fraction of room to move, and hands were working as Rico swore at the telephone and knocked it back on the hook.
‘Rico.’ Anton’s voice was amazingly calm. ‘Why don’t you let Lydia go and then we can talk?’
‘Pay me off?’
‘If that is what you want,’ Anton offered.
‘You really think money will fix everything,’ Rico sneered. ‘That fat bank account of yours will save your soul. Well, not this time, Anton.’ He slammed the gun into his cheek and Lydia choked back a scream, watching as the harsh metal tore through Anton’s flesh, heard again the sickening sound of metal on bone.
‘What do you want from me?’ Anton breathed.
‘To see you suffer,’ Rico answered coolly. ‘No more, no less.’
‘Then let Lydia go.’ Somehow his voice was calm, somehow he managed to deliver the words as if it were almost a natural assumption that she should be freed. Lydia’s eyes darted to Rico, fear gripping her as she awaited his response—not at the fact she might be held, more at the prospect of being freed, of leaving Anton with this crazed captor. It was a torture she couldn’t fathom.
‘She stays.’ Rico’s response was unequivocal, but Anton demanded an explanation.
‘What possible good could it do?’ Anton demanded, and even though his face was as white as marble, with blood streaming down his cheeks, his hands were bound and the collar of his robe was saturated with blood, there was a tortured dignity about him. His presence was still commanding, his voice firm, controlled as he reasoned with the impossible. ‘You say you want to see me suffer—no more, no less. So what benefit can there be in making her stay? The police will treat you more favourably if you release her, and it is me you want after all. So let Lydia go…’
‘You’re not listening to me.’ Rico’s voice verged on hysteria. Anger and hatred blazed in his eyes as he snarled at Anton, who somehow didn’t flinch. ‘I said I wanted to see you suffer.’
‘I heard you.’ Anton’s was the voice of reason but it only served to incense Rico further.
‘I don’t think you understand,’ Rico screamed.
‘I’m trying to.’
Lydia watched as Anton’s eyes struggled to focus. He was squinting, fighting the pain, the nausea, the sheer exhaustion. He ran a dry, pale tongue over even dryer lips, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Not just the collar but the entire top of his robe was drenched now with his own blood, and her fear multiplied. She knew that she had to do something, that it wasn’t a single bullet that would kill them both, but the slow torture of death from a thousand cuts: the pain, the injuries, the torture Rico had inflicted over the last day and night were culminating now, slowly squeezing the life force out of them.
‘You have to stop the bleeding.’ Lydia spoke to Rico, trying to keep the fear from her voice, to somehow restore a strange normality. ‘You need to apply pressure to his cheek, Rico—wrap something around it—he’s losing too much blood.’
‘Shut up.’ A stinging slap blistered her cheek, but Lydia was too numb to register the pain. ‘You don’t know what it is to suffer, Anton Santini, so now I will tell you. Suffering is watching someone you love, watching someone you care about, robbed of their dignity, crying in pain night after night, watching Cara—’
‘Speak to me in Italian.’ Anton’s voice cut in and sent a shiver down Lydia’s spine.
‘Why?’ Rico’s voice was a mocking taunt. ‘Are you scared that she will think less of you if she knows the truth about you?’
‘We will discuss this in Italian.’ Anton’s voice was still loud, but she heard him waver. Her terror intensified as the situation escalated, as she sensed Anton’s tension—as, for the first time since the ordeal began, she saw true naked terror in his eyes. ‘We discuss this in Italian because Lydia has nothing to do with this!’ Anton shouted.
‘Oh, but she does,’ Rico said softly. ‘You care about her—more than you care about yourself, more than you ever cared about my sister. And as I explained before, I want to see you suffer.’
The gun that had been pointed at her for so many hours now was out of sight, but she could feel the cool metal against her chest. The feel of the solid object pressing into her flesh didn’t compare to the vile touch of Rico, the savage drag of his fingers along her cheek, the rubbing of the nub of his finger against the bitten flesh of her bottom lip.
‘She is very beautiful.’
‘Don’t touch her,’ Anton breathed, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Rico’s crazed eyes bored into her as he addressed Anton. ‘Tell her!’ he shouted. ‘Tell her how you made love to my sister—tell her how you promised you would be there for her, that you would marry her. Tell her how you cried tears of joy when your baby was born, when you held your son in your arms for the first time…’
‘Rico, we can talk about this. I can explain…’
‘Then do,’ Rico spat. ‘Explain how when your son was sick, lying near death’s door, you walked away. You told Cara that you weren’t ready for fatherhood, paid my sister off with a cheque. Explain that if you can!’
And it wasn’t the gun or Rico that scared her now, but Anton’s response. Her eyes dragged across the room as she willed him to refute the accusations, begged him with her eyes to tell her that it wasn’t true, that the man she had starte
d to love could never leave a woman so cruelly, could never walk away from his own flesh and blood.
‘I can’t,’ was Anton’s paltry response.
‘I hate you, Santini,’ came Rico’s menacing whisper. ‘I’ve been tracking you since the day you left, watching your every move and waiting for this moment.’
‘Why here?’ Anton stared back at him. ‘Why now?’
‘You’ve caused my sister enough shame, so I’m taking care of it well away from her. You won’t bring any more shame to our village, because I’m the one dealing with things now.’
‘You’re sick.’ Somehow Anton held it together, somehow he kept his voice even. ‘Rico, you’re not well—you need help. This isn’t the way to deal with things.’
‘Oh, but it is. I hate you, Santini—hate the way you treat women, the way you treated my sister, the way you walked out on your own flesh and blood. I’ve hated you for so long now, and today I’m going to show you how much—’
‘You’ll never get away with it,’ Anton broke in. ‘The place is swarming with police.’
‘Ah, but I’m sick.’ Rico’s smile was pure malice. ‘You said so yourself. Which means none of this is my fault. How can I be responsible when I don’t know what I’m doing?’
‘Let Lydia go.’ Anton’s voice was crystal-clear. ‘You’re wrong about one thing, Rico. I don’t give a damn about her. She’s not my girlfriend—she’s a police officer…’
‘Liar!’
‘Look under the pillow,’ Anton roared. ‘That’s her gun you’ll see. She means nothing to me, she’s just someone paid to watch me. You can believe what you want, Rico, it doesn’t make a scrap of difference to me—I’m dead anyway. But think about it. Think about facing a jury with a police officer’s blood on your hands. I don’t give a damn about her.’ Anton said it again, conviction lacing each and every word.
‘The same way you didn’t give a damn about my sister?’ Rico asked.
‘The same way.’ Anton met his captor’s eyes.
‘Rico!’
The booming voice through a megaphone outside in the hallway only exacerbated the tension. The voice that filled the room was way louder, way more invasive than the speaker phone had been, and the gun waved manically in Rico’s hand as his fragile mind was toyed with.
Lydia knew that he couldn’t go on much longer, that in a short time things were going to come to a head. Furiously she worked to free her wrists, oblivious of the raw bruised skin. She rubbed them together, feeling the tiniest give in the tape, and concentrated on keeping her face expressionless as her hands worked on behind her back.
‘We have someone on the telephone who wants to speak with you. If you don’t pick up I’m going to play her voice over the loudspeaker.’
Rico just shouted, screaming into the stale air, every word, every action more crazed, more terrifying, more unpredictable than they had ever been.
‘Rico…’ The tearful rasps that filled the air stilled him, and a soft woman’s voice crackled into the room, desperately urging Rico in Italian to pick up the phone, to talk to her, to end this madness. Every word inflamed Rico further. He was pacing the room now, shouting at people who weren’t even there, and Lydia wished it would all just stop, wished that everyone would just go away and let her deal with it. And it wasn’t Rico’s response that worried her, but Anton’s. She watched as the strong mask finally slipped, as thick tears coursed down his cheeks. They told Lydia without question that the woman talking was Cara.
Finally Rico kicked the phone across the room, then crouched to pick it up, and for a tiny hope-fuelled second Lydia envisaged it being over—surely Cara would sort things out? But Anton’s words tore that last vestige of hope from her, and she watched in stunned silence as he addressed Rico.
‘Don’t pick it up, Rico. Talk to me, not her.’
‘Anton?’ Utterly bemused, Lydia questioned him. ‘Rico surely needs to speak with his sister—’
‘Shut up,’ Anton’s snarl was as loaded and as angry as Rico’s had been, but it hurt twice as much. Lydia recoiled on her seat as if she’d been slapped, totally confused, and every last avenue seemed closed to her as Anton’s verbal assault continued. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’
‘Yeah, shut up.’ Rico sneered. ‘I need to think.’
‘She doesn’t know how to stay quiet.’ Anton’s voice was a jeer. ‘Nagging all the time, telling me what I’m supposed to be doing.’
The delirium, the paranoia that was clouding her mind, lifted a touch as she realised that Anton was somehow still in control, that Anton was trying to save her, trying to get her out before Rico finally succumbed to the mounting pressure. To free her before the appalling bloody climax that would surely ensue when Rico spoke with Cara. But Lydia didn’t want her freedom—not at that price. Her job was to protect Anton, not to leave him at the mercy of this madman. Whatever game Anton was playing, it was surely the wrong one. Cara was their only hope, Lydia reasoned. The only person who could talk Rico down. This dangerous game Anton was playing would see them all killed.
‘Deal with me, Rico,’ Anton pushed. ‘Don’t listen to Cara. Don’t let her talk you out of what you want to do. Deal with me, man to man.’
‘Speak to Cara, Rico,’ Lydia begged, shooting a furious authoritative look at Anton as she worked on to free her bound wrists. ‘Don’t listen to Anton. He left your sister. Why would you listen to a man who walked out on his own child?’ The truth was too hard to contemplate, the words she was saying just too horrible to comprehend, but she said them anyway, knowing deep down that this was their last chance. ‘Listen to what Cara has to say.’
She saw Rico waver, and though she despised him a flash of sympathy flared in her as she witnessed his pain, saw the blind confusion in his eyes, smelt the stench of his fear. And, as finally her hands slipped from the tape, Lydia knew that this was her only chance—that if she didn’t do something now they were all going to die.
Lunging across the room she tackled Rico, felt the wedge of flesh against her as she wrestled him to the floor. She felt a searing pain as her head hit the floor, but it barely registered. All she could feel was the tension in Rico’s hands as she fought for control. All she could hear was the release of gunshots as they whistled across the room. And then the shrill of a scream—her own scream—filled her ears as she heard, sensed, Anton thudding to the floor.
There was nothing she could do, not a single blessed thing she could do, other than go on holding Rico’s wrists high above his head, refusing to let go. She didn’t release her grip even as the door slammed open, even as her colleagues swarmed the room and finally secured the scene. She held onto his wrists even as Kevin held her shoulders and told her it was all over, that she was going to be okay, only letting go when everything started to blur, the shouting voices around her started to muffle.
Unconsciousness. A welcome reprieve from the pain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘YOU’RE OKAY.’ Graham’s face stared down at her, familiar but strange, and Lydia struggled to place him, trying and failing to work out where in her life he belonged.
‘Was I shot?’
‘No.’ Graham shook his head. ‘You lost consciousness for a while—you had a nasty bang on your head and the doctor said that you are concussed—but you definitely weren’t shot.’
‘Anton?’ Her voice trembled around the word. She was terrified of the answer but needed to know all the same, panic rippling through her as she again recalled the sound of the gun going off, the relentless sound of bullets in a confined space, and then worse, far worse, the thud of Anton falling behind her, the silence that had followed.
‘He’s fine—or at least he will be soon. They’re just stitching him up, and he’s getting some IV fluids…’
‘He was shot!’
‘He wasn’t shot.’ Graham sounded irritated. ‘The bullet barely nicked his arm.’
‘He’s right.’ That thick, unmistakable accent filled the room, and even
in vivid green hospital-issue pyjamas he still cut a dash—even with a broken nose and a massive row of sutures in his cheek he was quite simply beautiful.
‘What happened to Rico?’ Lydia’s voice wavered and she struggled to check it. She knew that Graham would be thinking she had gone soft, but she didn’t care. Rico was sick and needed help—and, Lydia recalled sadly, the hatred that fuelled him, even if it had been appallingly displayed, wasn’t entirely without reason.
‘Locked up. Which is way less than he deserves. We knew you were in trouble even before you called down—some information came in that he had a psychiatric history, was actually from the same village as Santini—and we were just ringing up to warn you, calling in for back-up, when your call came through.’ Graham’s mouth twisted with suppressed rage. ‘If it was up to me, they’d—’
‘He’s sick, Graham,’ Lydia broke in.
‘Don’t ask me to waste any sympathy on him,’ Graham retorted, gripping her hand, his fingers squeezing her bruised flesh. ‘I thought I’d lost you for a moment there, Lydia.’
Wriggling her hand away, she stared up at him. ‘You lost me ages ago, Graham.’
‘Lydia…’ Graham shook his head. ‘You’re exhausted. You’ve been to hell and back. In a couple of days—’
‘I’ll feel exactly the same,’ Lydia interrupted.
And it was the easiest thing in the world to tell Graham to leave—easy because Lydia knew that she didn’t love him. But as he quietly left she knew that now came the difficult part: saying goodbye to someone she would love for ever.
Impossibly shy, she gazed up at Anton, taking in the row of black sutures along his cheek, the swollen and bloodied lips and the purple bruises surrounding his near closed eyes.
‘Green doesn’t suit you.’
Taken for His Pleasure Page 13