"Be that as it may, I feel confident I will be able to handle her. Let me see her face."
I'm shoved down into a luxurious leather seat—a private jet, obviously. The bag is whipped off my head, the sudden light blinding me.
Pugli. Patrician, handsome. Dark hair swept back and glossy. Clean-shaven. Dark eyes vicious and cruel and cold and amused, wearing a stone-colored suit with a white-button down and no tie. "Well, there you are." A sigh. "My god, you really are remarkably beautiful."
If I wasn't gagged, I'd spit in his face. As it is, I stare at him with all the hate inside me. Too bad looks really can't kill.
"Mmm," he hums. "Such fire. Such spirit. I really wish I could break you myself."
I can't help my face betraying my confusion.
He sees it. "Ah, you're wondering where we're going. And, most likely, who will be the one to break you, if not me."
The door to the cockpit opens, and the pilot pokes his head out. “We're ready to take off, sir."
"Very good."
With deft, nimble fingers, Pugli removes my gag, buckles me into the seat, and then buckles himself. A few minutes later, we're roaring into the sky.
I really hope Uncle Lear is watching.
Once we've reached a cruising altitude, Pugli unbuckles himself, but leaves me. \
"I would relish in your suffering, my dear. Your screams, I think, would be delicious. But alas, I've found a buyer for you. And what a bargain we've struck, Miss Bryn Eloise Harris. What a bargain, indeed." His voice is low and smooth and articulate, educated. Arch and crisp. Subtly accented with his Italian heritage. When I don't betray my curiosity, he seems annoyed. "You see, I have a problem. And there is a man across the Atlantic who can help me with my problem. But he, like me, has all the money he could ever want and much, much more. I’m a pauper next to this man. So what bargain do you strike with a man who has everything?" He flicks manicured fingers at me. "You cater to his…tastes. And it turns out this Mercado fellow and I share certain…predilections. Which is where you come in."
Mercado? Never heard of him.
I stare at Pugli, waiting for him to keep monologuing at me like a James Bond villain. The pretentious fuck.
"He's quite a big deal, apparently. He controls much of the global drug trade, I'm told, but has recently fallen afoul of a certain organization of…hmmm…unpleasantly altruistic former soldiers. Not unlike your own family. So, we have decided to help each other, this Mercado and I. I'm bringing some of my best men, and I'll help him eliminate his…problem. He then will help me with mine, which is where our problems intersect. And this is where you come in. You're a peace offering, of sorts—we're both suspicious men, you understand. Nature of the business and all. You also serve another purpose—bait. Your lot will surely come to save you, and that's when Mercado, relieved of the burden of those pesky…Broken Arrows. And they are pesky—I should know, after all, as I’ve recently tangled with them myself. But Anatoly and his crew will make quick work of them, I’m sure. Right, Anatoly?"
"Yes, boss."
"I've lost my train of thought. Oh, right. Once Anatoly and friends have rid us of Mercado's and my Broken Arrow problem, we turn our attention to you, your boyfriend, and your family, who, I'm sure, will show up en masse to rescue you. Which is all part of the plan, of course.” Pugli looks at me, licks his lips. "Once all the killing is over with, Mercado and I will trade. I give him you, and he gives me a delicious little thing from his part of the world." He leans toward me, whispering conspiratorially, as if I were in on his joke. "When I say I've been craving Mexican, I'm not talking about burritos."
Oh god, gross.
Bile rises in my throat at how he's so casually discussing human beings like…like a commodity. Something worth less than a bag of French fries.
He doesn't miss a thing, Pugli. He sees my expression and laughs. "No stomach for that, eh? Well, you'll certainly not enjoy what Mercado has planned for you. He shared it with me in some detail after I sent him your file."
He has a file on me?
"We sort of bonded, he and I. It's truly wonderful to connect with someone who operates on one's own level, to freely discuss one’s…pecadillos.”
This guy is fucked in the head. But the good thing is I know his plans, so I'm that much closer to knowing how to foil them. I also know I'm not going to be immediately tortured, raped, and killed. Just eventually. Although going off of what he's saying, I'm starting to think torture, rape, and murder would be the easy way out of what’s actually coming my way, if this freaky fucker's frank admiration of Mercado is anything to go on.
He leans back in his seat, scrutinizing me. "You're a calm one, Miss Harris. I find that admirable, truly, but foolish. There is no escape. There will be no daring last-minute rescue by your delightful band of do-gooder paladins." A shrug, a flip of his hand. "That said, hysterics will do you no good either, I'm just not accustomed to a lack of theatrics when my merchandise discovers the fate awaiting them."
I feel a vicious surge of disgusted hatred at the use of the word "merchandise" to describe human beings.
I've kept silent thus far, but since I've got very little to lose at this point, I may as well indulge in my curiosity. "Tell me, Bob, what happened to you? I mean, who hurt you? For real."
His dark eyes narrow at me. "Bob? I think not." The hardness in his gaze belies his jovial, charming speech patterns. I hit a nerve, I think. "And I've no idea what you mean."
"Well, Bobby-boy, what I mean is that I just can't figure out how the fuck you become such a vile, disgusting, evil, demented, filthy, depraved, rapey piece of shit. It's truly mind-boggling." I roll a shoulder, or at least, as much as I can while my hands are still bound behind my back and my elbows cinched inward. "The only option, as far as I can tell, is that you were badly abused as a kid. That's how monsters like you are made, right? Daddy beat you? Mommy called you mean names? Uncle Al diddled you in the basement?"
I'm making light of such awful things on purpose—to get a reaction.
