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My mind raced with how that could have happened. I looked over at Typhon. “Of course. Maximo got her off that plane somehow. Wait! He has a place in Milan. He’s probably taking her there.”
“He knows better than to go home.”
“What makes you think Scaglione will help us?”
“One, like I said, he owes me a favor. Two, we’re deploying the next part of the mission. You’re going to hand him the Sicilians, and he’s going to help us find Penelope.”
31
BUTTERFLY
“Bellissima.” A man whose hands smelled like cigarettes ran his finger down my arm.
“Non toccarla!” Another man shouted, which I took to mean not to touch me when the first snatched his hand away.
We’d been traveling by car for close to an hour, based on the seconds and minutes I’d done my best to keep track of.
No one had spoken to me, so I kept my mouth shut and thought about everything I’d learned in hostage-survival training. First, to remain calm, be polite, and cooperate with my captors.
Next, do not attempt to escape. This was the most difficult rule to follow. My basic instincts were to try to get away. It was innate. However, unless there was an extremely good chance of survival, I’d be safer submitting to the will of my captors.
Next, if and when I was spoken to, I’d speak normally and comply with all orders and instructions. If they removed the hood they’d put over my head, I would not look at them and definitely not make eye contact.
Tracking my transport was another thing I’d learned, along with trying to memorize every detail I could about my captors.
The vehicle came to a stop, the engine turned off, and the door to my right opened. A man with a softer touch than the one who smelled of cigarettes took my arm and helped me out of the car. He gripped my elbow with one hand and put his other around my back, guiding me.
I couldn’t get any clues about where we were other than the path we walked on was gravel. I couldn’t hear any traffic, so I figured we were somewhere rural.
We continued several paces and stopped. A door opened, and the same man guided me inside, where it felt considerably colder and smelled musty—like a cave. We walked several more yards before stopping again. Another door creaked, and after I was led inside, the man with me reached up and removed the hood.
I blinked slowly, then looked around a room that held a large table and several chairs. There was a floor-to-ceiling barrier that appeared to be made of metal but was open. Behind it were shelves and shelves holding bottles of wine. Below the shelves were barrels.
I was about to turn my head to look at the rest of the room when the removed hood was replaced by a blindfold. He grabbed my arm, jerked me forward, and pushed me into one of the chairs. A rope went around me and was pulled taut.
The door closed behind me, but I sensed I wasn’t alone. Seconds later, I felt a warm breath on my neck.
“I can see why he’s so obsessed with you, Butterfly. If he does not follow my instructions and do as I ask, perhaps I’ll keep you for myself.”
When his tongue trailed from my ear down my neck, I shuddered and pushed back the bile that rose in my throat.
32
MICHELANGELO
Before we reached Castello Vicchiomaggio, Tank pulled the SUV over and got out. Typhon moved to the driver’s seat and I, to the one next to it. Tank got into the other SUV when Blackjack stopped behind us. Then, we removed our comms sets.
Surprisingly, when we arrived, the gates to Don Scaglione’s estate stood open. Less so were the men wielding automatic weapons who stepped out of the shadows when we pulled through them.
Typhon rolled down the window, and one of the men waved us through.
“How often do you come here?”
“As often as necessary.”
We drove up to the villa and were escorted inside by another man carrying an automatic weapon. Three others followed behind us.
We were led to a lift that took us two floors up. When it stopped and the door opened, we stepped out into a luxurious space much like a penthouse in Manhattan. I followed Typhon out to a terrace.