Page 2 of His Captive

I assess the situation. It’s the middle of the day on a moderately busy street. Hardly the conditions for a kidnapping, besides why would anyone need to take me? I’m not of any importance. There isn’t even anyone they could ransom anymore.

At least the man had shown at the funeral... even if he hadn’t bothered to get out of his fancy car.

The driver offers me a patient smile, and I nod in acceptance as I place one of my legs inside the door.

A smell of leather and cigarettes drift through the door as I lean inside. The man waiting for me clears his throat. I’m not surprised that he wears a tailored suit or an expensive watch. But I am taken aback by how young he appears. In a peculiar way, I guess you could call him handsome, with olive skin, and dirty blonde hair that he wears slicked back from his face. Undoubtedly though, his most striking feature is the misty blue of his eyes that seem to peer through me as I shuffle uncomfortably on the seat.

“Good afternoon, Miss Carlson.” His words come out so smooth, almost disguising the threat that I detect in his voice. The door beside me slams shut, and all those unnerving feelings from before return to me in an instant.

“Sir.” I tip my head, trying my best to control the panic mounting in my chest, at the same time cursing myself for being stupid enough to get inside a stranger’s car.

“I am so sorry to hear of your father's passing,” he continues, almost convincingly. Then, reaching forward, pours himself a two-finger measure from the crystal decanter that’s on the mini bar.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks me over his shoulder.

“No. Thank you.” I shake my head, hearing the fear in my tone, and certain that he’ll sense it too. He doesn't seem the sort of man who misses much. He shrugs at my refusal, relaxing back beside me, then takes a slow steady sip of the drink in his hand.

“Apologies. I should have introduced myself. Ivan Sorrento.” He holds out his hand, and my sweaty palm connects with his steady one, letting him control the firm shake. All too late, I realize where I recognize the name. His is a name regularly spoken of around town, and not for good reasons.

Ivan Sorrento had shown up in town a few years ago and pretty much governed it ever since. He was responsible for the big development that was likely to destroy a majority of the local businesses in Cooper’s Ridge when it was built. Everyone knows there is nothing legitimate about how he does business, and yet no one is ballsy enough to question him over it.

Rumor is that he’s dangerous and being in his presence for just a short time I understand exactly how he’s acquired that reputation.

Even more concerning is the almost certainty, that my father has neither been a friend nor an acquaintance of his.

“Thank you, Mr. Sorrento. Your offer is appreciated, but I would rather walk the rest of the way home. It’s a nice day out.”

I move my hand toward the door handle, and my whole body stills when his hand slams against my knee. His warm palm causing my body to shiver.

“I’m not finished,” he tells me sternly, fear lodges in my throat when any friendliness in his tone disappears.

“You see, Lysetta, your father's untimely death, left behind a little problem that requires… clearing up.”

“A problem,” I repeat, trying to understand how the death of my father could possibly affect a man like him.

“Yes, and quite a substantial one. Forty-two thousand dollars to be exact.” His mouth twists while he watches for my reaction.

“Forty-two thousand dollars?”

“Yes, your father borrowed from me, a few years ago,” he informs me casually. I can’t see how his claim can be true. My father was too proud to borrow money. He’d sold his business and our family home on that very principle.

“I have copies of all the paperwork,” he says, handing me a brown envelope.

I take it from him, pulling out the documents, and skimming my eyes over the contract. Sure enough, on the last sheet of paper is my father’s signature. He’d borrowed sixty thousand dollars in total, managing to pay some of it back with regular instalments.

“Being his next of kin, and only surviving relative, I’m afraid this debt now passes on to you. As referred to in appendix ten.” Sorrento’s eyes lower back to the paperwork, and I can sense him getting a kick out of my reaction.

Panic is fast cooling the blood in my veins, there’s no way I can find this sort of money. My new waitressing job is hardly going to cover my rent.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize, still staring at the paperwork in disbelief.

“I can see this has come as quite a shock to you. And be assured that I will do all I can not to make this time any more difficult.”

My attention draws back to the hand he still has placed on my knee when his fingers tense.

“I have no money,” I tell Sorrento honestly. “I’m broke. I have a job, but I barely scrape by. I just don’t know how…”

“Understandably,” he interrupts. “And the last thing I want to do at this difficult time is put you under any more stress. If paying back is going to be a problem I’m sure we can come up with an arrangement.”

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