Dark Redeemer by Raven Scott

4

Angela

Idon’t think I’ve ever been in so much trouble in my entire life. I need to get the hell out of here. I saw the way he was looking at me from behind that balaclava before he left. Blatantly eye fucking me like that, as if I was some sex toy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hungrily licked his lips whenever I wasn’t looking.

When I broke his trance by asking if there was anything else, he got so angry… I can still see the fury burning in his eyes. The death. I’m lucky he didn’t rape and kill me right then and there. Honestly, I didn’t think my tone was that condescending. Hell, my voice was trembling as I spoke the words.

I guess it serves me right for playing with fire. He did say he wants to kill my father, and maybe my brothers and sister, so he’s not a man to toy with. I should just submit to him and do everything he asks, but I can’t, just can’t. I’m not going to allow him to touch a hair on Papa’s head. I’ll do everything in my power to stop him. I will find a way to escape, and if not, I’ll get a message out to warn Papa. Somehow.

Still, something seems off about that big man. I can’t quite place it. The way he holds himself, his posture when he walks, it’s all somehow vaguely familiar. I know him from somewhere, I’m sure of it. I’m guessing he’s a disgruntled former employee. We’ve had a few of those in the past—I remember one guy who shot up our front gate a few years ago after he was let go. I’m not sure what happened to him, but I suspect either my father or my brothers tracked him down, because he never bothered us again.

And it makes sense that the guy worked for us. He’d have intimate details of our schedule, and know when I was going to be leaving the house. Then again, my trip to the Ippodromo was more of a last minute decision on my father’s part. That meant the kidnappers were watching the house, then. Waiting for the moment to strike. So I don’t know…

I sigh and get up. No point dwelling on it. I’ll never know his identity, not unless I tear off that balaclava of his. Not a good idea—that mask is probably the only thing keeping me alive. He’ll never let me go if I find out the identity of him or the other kidnapper. My father would hunt them down to the ends of the earth. So yeah.

I get up and try the door. Locked, unsurprisingly. I go to the window next. There are no bars, not even a screen. Past the well-spaced grapevines I can see the Tyrrhenian Sea in the distance, its persistent waves splashing against the sandy beach I ran across earlier. So near, yet so far. There are probably a few caves or rock outcrops further down the beach. Places I can hide, if I ever get away. I wonder if it’s really true that he owns the neighboring lands…

I open the outward swinging shutters and glance down. There’s no way to climb the smooth wall to the ground—no other windows, no cracks, no drainpipes, no trellises. The only way down is by jumping, but that’s not something I’d survive.

I crane my neck upwards, wondering if maybe I can attain the rooftop, but the roof is too far to jump to, and the wall between here and there is free of handholds.

I close my eyes and bow my head. There’s no escape. I’m truly and utterly trapped.

I gaze down once more. Leaping to my death is one way out… the final way.

A dove lands on the windowsill. I remain stock-still, not wanting to scare it, but a moment later it notices me. The white bird releases an indignant squawk before taking flight in a puff of feathers. I watch the dove disappear behind one of the other outbuildings and find myself yearning for its freedom.

That it even landed here in the first place tells me the birds here aren’t used to this room being occupied. A quick glance at the stone windowsill confirms that: it’s littered with bird crap.

Another dove swoops in but turns away at the last moment when it spots me and quickly darts toward another building. That makes me smile. Those birds remind me that not all is doom and gloom in the world, that there’s always hope and humor left no matter how dire the situation. I’ll find a way through this. And a way out. I have to.

In addition to the four-poster bed, the room is equipped with the usual accoutrements you’d expect to find in a bedroom, including a dresser and mirror combination, two nightstands, and a wardrobe. There’s also an armless slipper chair. All the furniture is made of cherry wood in an antique style, with the edges shaped into ornate curves.

There’s an ensuite bathroom with a tub and shower head, toilet, bidet, and sink. An ugly painting of a yellow flower hangs next to the mirror. It’s one of those pointillism affairs composed of thousands of tiny dots.

I notice the toiletries laid out on the sink countertop. The bath and facial towels are neatly folded, while the black makeup towel is fashioned into an origami-styled bird. There’s toothpaste, body soap, shampoo, conditioner, floss, even an unopened toothbrush. It feels like the kind of room you’d find on AirBNB. I half expect to find a chocolate lying somewhere next to the towels.

Obviously my kidnappers have been planning this for a long time.

I turn on the tap and splash water onto my face, then take a pee, being careful to pull my blouse low in case there are hidden cameras watching me. When I’m done I quickly hike up my jeans, then I climb onto the toilet and peer into the ceiling vent. I can’t see much of anything in there, except a fan, so I’m not sure if a camera is hidden inside.

I wash my hands and stare at my disheveled reflection. I look so terrible, with bags under my eyes, my nose red, my hair a mess. I have grime on my cheeks and forehead. I look like how I imagine a cavewoman would appear if she were forced to don modern clothing.

I scrub the grime from my cheeks and then dry myself with one of the provided face towels. I worry the mirror might be two-way, so I try not to stand in front of it for too long. There’s nothing I hate more than being watched by someone I can’t see. It ranks up there with being leered at by a man in a balaclava.

I open the wardrobe, and gaze at the dresses and other items of clothing. Most of it is too garish for my tastes, bright and colorful clothes that look like they were chosen for circus performers. I quickly close it, deciding I’m going to stick to my own clothes for the duration of my confinement. When I bathe, it will be with my clothes on—that way I kill two birds with one stone, washing myself and my clothes. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable drying off in my wet clothes, but it’s been a pretty warm fall so far, so it’s not like I’ll get hypothermia or anything. Plus I won’t have to worry about some hidden camera recording me while I undress.

I return to the bed and lie there, propped against the headboard. I gaze longingly at the sea beyond the window, and imagine all the fun things I used to do on waves like that, wishing I could do them again. Suntanning. Sailing. Tubing. Bodyboarding. It wouldn’t even matter if I had to have bodyguards with me.

Bodyguards…

I think again of Maurizio and the other bodyguards who fell protecting me. I watched them die, right before my eyes. That cruel man murdered them. Him, and his fellow kidnapper. Such horrible people. Maurizio was like a second father to me.

I’m sorry, my dear, sweet friend.

I feel like it’s my fault. If I had stayed home today, refused to obey my father, they wouldn’t be dead. Or maybe if I’d surrendered right away, running towards the gunfire, none of this would have happened. But then, that’s impossible: I freeze whenever I see guns or hear gunfire. Because of what happened…

I miss you, Mamma.

I close my eyes. It’s possible Maurizio isn’t really dead, nor the other guards. Sure, they were hit by bullets, but there’s a chance they survived. I sob, and the tears I’ve held back all afternoon come.

I quickly shove my face into my pillow, not wanting to give my kidnappers the satisfaction of watching me cry. Their hidden cameras can’t see through pillows.

I definitely should have stayed in bed today.

He’s going to kill me and all my family. He—

I sigh, push myself off the pillow, and wipe away the tears. I have to be strong.

I gaze down at the bracelet clasped around my ankle. Well, even if I do find a way to escape, I won’t get very far with this damn thing humping my ankle. I’m thinking it probably has a battery, like a smartphone or watch. And batteries need charging. So the question is, how long does the battery last? If I wait a few days, maybe it won’t matter that I’m still wearing the bracelet, and my kidnappers won’t be able to track me.

I lift the coverlet of the bed and slide inside. Then, while shielded by the blankets, I start messing with the ankle bracelet. It’s impossible to pry off with my fingers.

Growing frustrated, I get up and search the drawers of the two nightstands, looking for a tool I can use. Nothing. I glance at the windowsill, and get an idea.

I doff my mary janes and pull myself partially onto the sill, and try to shield my leg from the view of any cameras in the room with the rest of my body. I experimentally close the shutters, but not all the way, so that I can properly wedge the knob portion of the bracelet between the stone sill and the wooden shutters. Now that the tracking device is in position, I quickly open and close the hinged panels, slamming them together hard so as to catch the bracelet between the stone and the wood. I do that three times, and a crack forms in the bracelet material.

I climb back down and slip inside my sheets once more. I excitedly rip the broken device from my ankle, then I get out of bed and surreptitiously shove the remnants into the wardrobe closet.

Now I just need to find a way out of here.

I return to the bed to consider other options. I could try to pick the lock, not that I’d have any success—it’s more my brother Leonardo’s department.

I could pretend I’m sick. Though that would only make the kidnappers call a doctor.

I could cut myself, force them to take me to a hospital? No, they’d just patch me up and keep me here.

What can I do…

Then I remember the lascivious look my main captor gave me before leaving. Maybe I can use that. While the thought of attempting to seduce my kidnapper disgusts me, if I can get him to lower his guard, I just might have a chance to escape. I’ll need a weapon though. I don’t want to kill him—I’m not a murderer—but I can’t really see a way of doing this without threatening to hurt him in some way. No guns, though. Never guns. Just something sharp, something I can press against his throat and threaten him with. If I have to cut him so he’ll take me seriously, I will.

I look around the room, trying to figure out what I can use…

The door opens and someone slides a tray into the room. Before I can say anything, or see who it is, the door closes.

I stare at the food angrily. I can’t believe my captors think I’m hungry at a time like this. Of course they don’t understand, they’re gangsters, with no sense of right or wrong, no sense of guilt. Besides, they’re the captors, not the prisoner, so they have no idea what it’s like. Maybe someday that will change and the tables will turn. We’ll see how much they like being captives in my father’s house.

My eyes drift from the steaming plate of pasta to the cut of veal, then to the utensils. A knife and fork. As I gaze upon the former, I can’t help the wide grin that stretches my lips.

Looks like I found my weapon…