WATER CASCADING down my face wakes me. Sputtering, I try to clear the pain from my addled brain to figure out what happened. Every breath I take hurts, and it takes me a few moments to realize that I'm tied to a metal chair in the middle of what looks like an industrial room, or… shit, is this a morgue?
I try to yank my arms free, but they're restrained behind the back of the chair while my legs are tied to two of the legs.
"Ah, she's awake."
I blink toward the voice. Water is still running down my face; my hair is soaked, as are most of my clothes.
"Good. Hank, call the boss. He wants to be here for this."
Hank, one of my two assailants, who is now sporting a bandage covering half of the left side of his face, doesn't seem to be too happy. "Give me a sec, Marco," he says, glaring at me with a grin that sends shivers down my back. He pulls a phone up to his ears. "She's up."
The fear that has been creeping up in me since waking up surges into a drowning flood as my eyes take in the array of metallic tables standing by a wall. Each is covered with sharp-looking instruments. I recognize a scalpel, a meat cleaver… and, oh God, is that a speculum? Violent shakes grab my body. I want to scream and plead, but no words come out. My throat is choked closed by panic.
Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Plays on repeat in my brain. This doesn't look like a random serial killer's lair. This looks like an organized… oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Be careful for the next few months, sweetheart!
Oh fuck, I didn't heed my dad's warning. Instead, I laughed. Nothing will happen to me. If only words said in absolute naivete were a shield. Or a wall. Or a machine gun. Leverage, Jo said a few hours earlier. I didn't get it then, but I do get it now. The trial my father is presiding over is big, national headlines big. The accused, Carlos Orsi, is one of the higher-ups in the Italian mafia. The Cosa Nostra doesn't want to see its members go to jail. They'll do anything to keep him out. Even kidnapping the judge's only daughter as leverage. Why hadn't I taken the threat more seriously?
Because you're a stubborn idiot, I accuse myself.
A door squeaks open, and I turn my head to the sound, realizing it must be at the top of the stairs. First, pricy leather loafers come into view, and then legs encased in fine suit pants, and then a matching jacket over a skinny, wily body. A man's face appears, a man I've never seen before. He looks like an accountant with a thinning hairline and round glasses.
"Be ready," he tells Hank while ignoring me, even as he walks up to me with a large note in his hand. The note is attached to a pin, and before I realize what's about to happen, he pins the note to my chest. A yelp of pain and fear escapes me at the sharp prick. I have a daunting suspicion that this is the easy part, and that scares the hell out of me.
The man turns to Hank, "You know what to do."
Hank is holding his phone up, filming this entire scene. The man snaps his finger, and Marco steps next to me. He manhandles my chin between his forefinger and thumb and presses down hard. "As a sign that you understand us, you will release Giancarlo Orsi on bail this morning. You will recess the trial until tomorrow morning. One wrong decision on an objection call, and she pays the price. For each piece of evidence allowed by the prosecution, she will lose a finger or an ear, clear?"
"Hang her up," the accountant lookalike orders. Tremors move through my body as Marco pulls out a wicked-looking, serrated knife and steps behind me. A whimper escapes me, but I try to be brave for my father. I'm all too aware that these men will send him this recording, and I don't want him to see me cry. This is going to be bad enough for him; he doesn't need me to break down on camera.
Marco cuts the zip ties holding my hands together; the relief of having my wrists free is short-lived as he yanks my arms up. The rattling sound of a chain sends a fresh wave of terror through my already panicked mind. My eyes dart upward, drawn to a pulley fixed to the ceiling. Before I can process what's happening, Marco secures my hands above my head, tying them to the cold, unyielding mechanism. He walks over to the other side of the room, where a hand crank waits for him. As he moves the lever, my arms lift, followed by the rest of my body, until only the tips of my big toes offer relief from my weight dangling in the air. My shoulders protest the strain, making me wonder how long one can hang like this before they dislocate.
"I'm a generous man, so I won't disfigure her face yet, but in case you need a little bit more of an incentive," the man says, holding out his hand to Marco. Marco places the knife, handle first, on the offered palm.
"No, no, please," I beg at the sight of the gleaming metal, unable to keep my composure any longer.
I try to move away from him, but all I accomplish is making myself swing on the chain in circles. The man laughs. He gives me another push, spinning me around and around until I'm so dizzy I nearly throw up.
Suddenly, his hand encircles my waist, stopping my momentum, and it takes me a moment to focus. The sound of ripping material is followed seconds later by a sharp pain on my back as the stranger slices the blade over my flesh. Warm blood leaks down my back and soaks into my skirt.
The pain is so much that I cry out before my stomach wins, and I throw up.
"That'll do. Get her cleaned up." I'm only peripherally aware of him collecting his phone from Hank before he walks back up the stairs.
"That's for my face, bitch," Hank snarls, and I'm hit with water from a hose.
He holds the spray straight into my face until I think I'll pass out, then he changes direction, and the pressure makes my body swing. The moment the water connects with the wound on my back, I cry out. One thought rushes through me before I pass out: How the hell am I going to get out of here?