Page 74 of Stolen Mafia Vows
I think about the foyer of my home on Staten Island, the windows spanning the entire front of the house, the life-sized animal statues that my mom has always adored, the fat cushions on the sofas, the collection of glass insects, frogs, and mushrooms dotted around the house, the hammock filled with soft toys from when I was a baby in the corner of my bedroom.
The pang of homesickness washes through me and leaves me breathless. If someone had told me a couple of months ago that I would never go home again, I’d have had a meltdown. But now… Now the thought leaves a serious ache in my chest that I won’t be able to rub away. It has always been my home. But everyone in it lied to me my whole life.
Home is where you should feel safe.
And I don’t know where that is anymore.
The guard exchanges some words I don’t understand with another thug in black trousers and a black sweater. This guy has the same dark features that make me think of theunderworld for some reason, like they are demons the dragon lady conjured up during spell class for her own protection. He presses the barrel of the gun hard against my spine, making me lose my balance, but my glare goes unnoticed.
“Jerk,” I mumble under my breath.
His eyes dart back to mine, and I flash him with a fake smile. His friend says something in his rolling accent, Russian perhaps, his eyes roaming down my body. I instinctively cross my arms over my chest and regret it when I hear him snicker.
“Move!” This time he gestures with the gun towards the far end of the hallway where sunlight is streaming through from a room on our right.
We follow the daylight through what must be a sunroom, a vast space with a raised platform at one end housing a log burner the size of a shed, comfy sofas as large as king-sized beds, and sheepskin rugs placed strategically around the floor. The far wall is made of glass overlooking an outdoor pool surrounded by potted palms, sun loungers with gigantic grass-topped parasols, and a Caribbean-style beach bar.
“Outside.” I wonder how many words they taught him at thug school.
“Ever heard of the word please?” I shoot back over my shoulder.
“Ever heard of the words ‘shut your fucking mouth and do as you’re told’?” he fires back with his accent that sounds as if he just ate a pizza with extra cheese that was still bubbling from the grill.
The heat hits me when I step outside. The sky isn’t the vibrant blue I saw in Ireland; it’s a wishy-washy shade of gray blue as if the sky and the clouds have been put through a blender. It’sreminiscent of the sky above New York City, hazy with pollution, the heat trapped inside the wormhole of skyscrapers and traffic jams.
I scan the empty sun loungers, and realize that there is someone in the pool, completing a length with a strong technique, smooth tanned arms moving methodically and raising barely a splash.
Olivia stops when she reaches the deep end, and treads water. When it’s obvious that she isn’t coming to us, the guard shoves me around the pool and positions me in front of her like I’m an auction piece being examined by a prospective buyer.
“I wondered when you would show up.” She folds her arms across the tiny turquoise tiles surrounding the pool and rests her chin on them.
Water clings to her eyelashes, and although she is wearing no makeup, her skin is flawless, her eyes clear, as if she’s a regular ten-hours-a-night kind of gal without a conscience.
“Where am I?”
She would be beautiful when she smiles if only there was some emotion behind it; as it stands, the smile isn’t something to be reciprocated. So, I don’t.
“You’re home, baby.”
I prickle at her use of the word ‘baby’. “What do you mean?”
“New York is home, right?” She furrows her brow, and I wonder if she practices her facial expressions in the mirror each morning when she wakes up.
“This is New York?” The drugs must really be wearingoff now, because the sense of uneasiness is making me feel nauseous. “How long was I asleep?”
“Too many questions, Emily. No wonder your family was happy to send you to Ireland. Did anyone ever tell you that it’s tiring having to deal with all your questions?”
Wow, this woman has attitude.
“Did anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to drug someone without their permission?”
“You gave Ilya permission.”
“I-I did?” She catches me off-guard, so I respond before I figure out that she’s lying. Of course she is. It’s her word against mine. “Why am I here?”
“Because you’re leverage. Why else?”
“You’re going to ask my family for ransom money?”
