Falling For The Mob

57 Ex

Zoë

My skin burns with the feeling of a thousand needles piercing it at the same time. I grunt and thrash for a moment before I register the sensation of the ice-cold water splashed over me. My head is pounding, I'm dizzy and nauseous. Again, I try to move but quickly realize my hands are tied behind my back.

I attempt to open my eyes, but any form of light burns. It would be so much easier if I could just go back to sleep. It's probably just another bad nightmare. I've been having those a lot lately.

Just as I'm about to doze off again, someone starts lightly slapping my face. My chin is harshly grabbed and shaken before I manage to open my eyes. This isn't a dream, everything hurts too much. I try to look back at the person who slapped me, but through my blurry vision, I can only see him walking away.

I attempt to call out to him, but nothing comes from my burning throat. Again, I struggle in my seat, but I barely move. I'm too weak.

"Zoë DeLuca." My attention is drawn forward to where a man drags a chair to sit in front of me. My eyes finally begin to adjust, and his features become clearer. He has a clean-shaven head, wears an expensive suit, appears to be in his mid-forties, and speaks with the thickest Italian accent I have ever heard.

"Who are you?" I whisper, feeling the burn not only in my throat but also on my cracked lips.

"I am Gianni Salerno, but you can call me Uncle Gio if that would make you comfortable." There is something very unsettling about him as he studies me. His eyes are unnaturally dark—he must be wearing contacts—and he is too calm. I know I'm in danger, yet he has a strange way of making me feel safe. Probably an attempt to lower my guard.

I can't get anything else from him, but he continues studying me for a moment longer, almost as if he's expecting me to recognize him or say something. "You are not what I expected," he eventually hums.

"What did you expect?" Whatever he wants, he clearly has the wrong person.

A small grin crosses his face. "To start, I expected a man. But then again, I can't imagine a man strong or insane enough to enjoy being in your position." He laughs like he told a joke I'm supposed to understand.

"And what position is that?" I tread carefully. He's too calm, I can't predict what will happen next.

"So eager to get to the point. In many cases, this level of curiosity can get you killed." His eyes twinkle with a vague threat, almost as if he hasn't yet decided what to do with me. "I want to know you, to understand what makes you, out of all people, special."

"Special enough for what?" He laughs at my immediate dismissal of his threat. I should be more cautious.

Shaking his head, he reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a packet of cigarettes along with a lighter. "Mind if I smoke?" he asks with one already between his lips. I think it's another bad joke until I see him pause and wait for my reaction before lighting it.

"You care about my comfort?" I ask, unable to hide my confusion. He clearly had me drugged, taken, and tied to this chair somewhere unknown, and now he asks for permission to smoke in my presence? None of this makes sense. This has to be some sick joke. I can't actually be here, maybe I really am dreaming.

Sensing he's losing my respect, he stands abruptly in frustration and begins to pace the room slowly.

There isn't much to see here. An armed guard stands in the corner, glaring at me as if he wants to rip me apart. Beyond him, there's nothing else—just cheap lights, rusty doors, and unkempt concrete walls. There is also a TV on a table in the corner of my eye.