Page 46 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

I whispered Giac’s name one last time but this man wasn’t Giacomo. He carried me a few feet down the road and tossing me into the back seat of another SUV. He shut the door and I heard a revving motorcycle behind us. The man driving the bike signaled and my captor started his car, following the bike down the highway.

I couldn’t move my head and my body would still barely respond to my brain’s commands. My throat was parched and my lips cracked. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been out but I longed again for the deep sleep promised by unconsciousness. I closed my eyes and slipped into the darkness once more.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was my stiff back. I was by no means old, but at my age when you slept on a cold, concrete floor all night you feel it in your joints, in your back, and in your bones. I groaned. I heard shuffling that indicated someone else was with me. With me, where?

I groaned as my eyes fluttered open.

“You’re up.”

I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Skye?”

“C’mon, have some water. They put some in for us.”

She unscrewed a bottle of water and tipped it back into my face. I propped myself up on my elbows and allowed her to pour the water down my throat. I closed my eyes and drank.

“What are you doing here?”

“I went out for a smoke last night and… they got me.”

“Who got you?”

“The Sardinians.”

“And they left Millie?”

She shrugged, “I guess so.”

Skye cleared her throat.

“Come on, sit up. You don’t look so good. What happened.”

“I was in the car and then… I don’t remember much. A man took me and now I’m here.”

“Where’s Millie?”

“I dunno. With Giac I guess.”

“Fuck,” Skye muttered.

She seemed more annoyed than upset or scared.

“Why did they take you, did they say?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“Stop it, Dahlia. Just drink. We’ll worry about that later.”

I’d sat up by then and I shivered as I eyed the four walls of our prison for a way out. We were in an unfinished basement somewhere, that much I could tell. The walls were concrete and painted a mustard yellow that must have been popular in the 1970s. We had no carpet beneath us and no furniture in the room beside an old pool table with dark brown stains on it.

“I’m cold.”

“It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, that’s for sure.”

I eyed Skye. She’d been kidnapped but her hair was still wet and she smelled like soap. She’d showered. She also wore a navy sweater and a pair of black jeans different from what she’d worn the night before. Easy for her to want me to quit complaining when she was far better dressed.

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