“Bait?” I shake my head. “No. They murdered my husband right in front of me and my Dad is dead and I—” My throat thickens with a wave of emotion. I drop my head as more tears flow down my cheeks. “This has to be a nightmare,” I whisper.
“Fuck, would you stop fucking crying already?”
My head keeps shaking. My body is violently trembling now, and all I can remember are the gunshots. The blood that was shed. The people watching and not helping. And that traitorous fuck, Kevin.
“Shit,” Ronaldo groans. “All right, let’s make a deal. You stop with the pity party and I’ll take your hood off.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t,” I sniff.
“I wasn’t…but I will if it’ll shut you up.”
I quickly nod my head. I need this thing off. I’m tired of feeling blind. I need to know where I am—figure out how to get out of this place somehow.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I hear rustling across from me and then I feel him get closer. He is near my head. I feel him moving the fabric and, slowly, it slides off from behind me. The hood lands on the ground, and he moves away, sitting against the wall.
And it’s when I see him that I almost can’t believe my eyes.
He’s an American man, clearly. His skin is pale and chalky, his eyes nearly sunken into his face, surrounded by dark, painful looking circles. He isn’t wearing a shirt and there are scars all over his body.
His hair is dry, brittle, and touches his shoulders. He’s so skinny I can see his ribs. Chapped lips, no shoes or anything on but a pair of hand-trimmed khakis.
But that’s not what catches me off guard. None of that compares to what really bothers me.
Ronaldo has no arms. They’ve been butchered—cut from the elbow. All that is left are his upper arms, and this explains why he most likely didn’t want to take my hood off.
I don’t think it’s me he didn’t want to see. He didn’t want me to see what has been done to him.
I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless, and I feel nothing but sympathy for this sad, broken man.
“What have they done to you?” I whisper. I narrow my eyes at him, looking him all over. He avoids my eyes, flaring his nostrils. They’ve tortured this guy for six months.
“Is your name really Ronaldo?”
“For now it is.” He smirks.
I’m surprised to see it.
“Time for you to state who you are.” He cocks a brow and moves his nubs behind him, as if to hide them. I realize I’m staring and I feel awful. But I can’t help it. The wounds have been sewn together badly, as if they’ve stitched them this way on purpose. They almost look infected.
I swallow hard. “Gianna. But everyone calls me Gia.”
“Gianna what?”
“Gianna Ricci.” Ricci was Antonio’s family name. My maiden name is Nicotera.
“Ricci? I’ve heard that name floating around here.”
I frown. “You have?”
“Yeah. Just last week I heard them saying they were going to crash your wedding. Said they were going to give him what he deserves.”
I wince. “Did they say a name of who ‘he’ is?”
Ronaldo clicks his tongue, thinking about it. “I want to say Tito, Titan…shit, I don’t know.” His eyes expand. “Oh—wait. Toni. That’s what it was. Trigger Toni.”
My heart beats heavier. My mouth feels so much dryer. Toni…
I look towards the cup in the corner and scramble towards it. It’s full of water, and I wonder why Ronaldo hasn’t drunk any of it.
“Is this water bad?” I ask.
“No. But I wouldn’t bother.”
“Why the hell not? I’m thirsty?”
“They won’t let you go to a bathroom.”
I frown, but this water is too tempting. I stare down at it, my fingers clutching the foam. My lips push together. They are so chapped, in need of moisture. I bring the cup up to my lips and guzzle it all down.
To hell with these bastards. I’ll pee in the cup if I have to.
Ronaldo shakes his head as I let out a wet gasp and place it down. “You should listen.”
“I don’t care. I’ll pee in the cup.”
He laughs bitterly, lowering his head. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I had the same mindset, until they came in here, took the cup, and didn’t bring me more water for days. Refused to let me go to the bathroom too.”
My eyes stretch wide with horror.
“They give you enough to last. Enough to keep you going. Enough to make sure you don’t die…in here anyway.”
“Do they…do they feed you?”
“Slop, really. But I can’t remember the last time I ate. It’s been over a week.”
“Oh my God.” I slink back against the wall, staring down at my stained gown. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“Believe it.”
“I don’t deserve this,” I whimper.
“Does anyone?”
I twist my wrists, trying to pull at least one of them free. It’s impossible. They are so tight. Rope doesn’t even seem like the material they’ve used. This rope feels like chains.