Page 22 of Surprise Pregnancy for Villain

I leave her sleeping in the room, locking the door from the outside, and looking around for a way to get some heat in the damn place. I don’t even know if it has a furnace, but if not, there’s a fireplace in the main room, and I noticed a full wood box outside. I check the walls for a thermostat and find one near the kitchen alcove. Sliding the control upward, I hear a faint click, and then the roar of gas igniting. A good thing because my fire-starting skills are limited to Molotov cocktails and car bombs.

The cabin is small but spacious enough for the objective. The main room has a sofa and two armchairs facing the fireplace. The walls are decorated in a green-patterned wallpaper with a wood-paneled wainscoting covering the lower half. An archway leads to the galley-style kitchen, and the two bedrooms are side by side off a short hallway, with a bathroom connecting them. A drop-leaf wooden table sits against a picture window behind the sofa and chairs. Rustic and lacking in decorating taste, to be sure, but it will have to do.

I go back to the car to retrieve Nicki’s knapsack and sit at the wooden table to rifle through it. I pull out a thick textbook and lay it on the table.Janson’s Complete History of Art. There’s also a notebook and a day planner. Surprisingly, I find a wallet with no money, bank or credit cards in it; just her student ID, bearing the name Nicoletta Graziano. Now that I know who she is, I understand the reason behind that inconspicuous last name. If my father had girls, I imagine he’d do the same, anything to keep them from the spotlight.

Still, I can’t imagine a mafia princess walking around with no means to even buy a cup of coffee. I wonder what’s the story behind it.

In a side pocket I find the most important item—her phone. The screen is locked, so I can’t look for missed calls, or contacts, or texts. I’m sure all of it would be very revealing. Immediately, I remove the SIM card. I should destroy it so the phone can’t be tracked, but something tells me we might need it eventually. I’ll take it with me back to the city and store it somewhere. I slip it into my pocket along with the ID card. I throw the rest into the trunk of my car, then circle the cabin, securing any windows that might provide a means of escape. When I come back inside, I check the other bedroom to make sure the connecting door to the bathroom is also locked, then go take a look around the kitchen. If the owners were thoughtful enough to stock firewood, perhaps they left food as well. There hadn’t been time to plan for any sort of provisions and having had extravagant meals prepared for me all my life, it’s not something I’ve ever had to do before.

There’s not much here. Sugar, flour, salt, and other non-perishables like oatmeal, canned goods, crackers, hardly the ingredients for a decent meal. The cabin is starting to warm up, though, and I realize Nicki will likely be hungry. I look over the cans and decide on the safest thing, chicken soup. I’ve never had to cook anything in my life, but I’m pretty sure I can manage to work a stove and a can opener.

I stir the soup as it heats. I haven’t eaten since yesterday myself, and even this prison-grade broth is starting to smell good.

Suddenly, I hear a thump coming from the bedroom. Fuck. Has she fallen off the bed?

“Hello? Is anyone there? Help me, please!”

I turn off the stove and grab a bowl from the shelf. I pour the soup and put the steaming bowl on a plate along with a plastic spoon and a handful of crackers. Slipping my mask back on, I make my way to her. For some reason, my heart is thumping in my chest.

“Hello! Help! Someone help me!” Her cries get louder as I approach her room. Her voice sounds strained and panicky. Though there’s no-one around for miles, I have no desire to hear it escalate into screams of terror. I set the plate down as I unlock the door and push it open part way.

“In here! Help!” she calls again.

I pick up the plate and open the door wider to find her on the floor,her hands and feet still tied. She tries to rise as I enter, her stunning hazel eyes red-rimmed but alert and wide with fear. I’m wearing the mask, but I can’t help feeling a bit paranoid. Does she recognize me?

“Whoever you are, I’m begging you to let me go,” she pleads. “My father is loaded. You’ll never have to work another day in your life if you take me back to him.”

I breathe an inaudible sigh of relief. This isn’t the time to reveal who I am. At the very least, I need to earn her trust. Even then, it might be a terrible idea.

Especially if I intend to return her home.

Ignoring her pleas, I venture further into the room. Despite her bonds she attempts to wriggle away, wedging herself against the wall between the bed and a small nightstand.

“Not another step closer, asshole,” she warns.

Oh, how I wish to assure her that I won’t hurt her, but I don’t trust that she won’t remember my voice. I take a step nearer so I can put the plate on the nightstand and am rewarded with a volley of spit from her dry but lovely lips. A gob of saliva lands on my sleeve.

“Get away from me! If you lay a hand on me, it’ll be the last thing you ever do,” she says, her voice raspy from shouting plus the after effect of the anesthetic cocktail. I ignore her threats, as well as the spit soaking my shirt.

She must be hungry. I set the plate down and step back.

“I’m warning you,” she says, the fear in her eyes hardening into straight-up defiance. “My father is Giovanni Borelli, head of the Borelli mafia family. You’re a dead man if you don’t let me go right this fucking second!”

Pity she has no clue I know all that, and more. If onlysheknows how close she came to being gang-raped or worse. I squat on my haunches and point to her restraint. I want to untie her so she can eat.

She glances warily at the soup, steam still rising from the bowl, then back at me. “You think I’m stupid? Like, I’m gonna trust you to give me food that’s not poisoned. Go fuck yourself,” she yells.

As if I’d bring her all the way here to poison her. I hold up my palms in a ‘don’t shoot’ gesture and then reach for the bowl.

Nicki shrinks further into her little corner, and I half expect her to bare her teeth like a trapped animal the way she’s acting. I take the soup, lift the bottom of my mask and slurp a spoonful of it myself. It’s bland but edible. I take another spoonful and offer it to her, like I’m feeding an invalid patient. She tightens her lips and turns her head away.

Oh well, suit yourself.

I set the bowl back on the nightstand and turn to leave.

“Wait,” she says when I’m about halfway to the door. “At least untie my hands.” I turn and look at her from across the room. She holds both her arms out, offering up her bound wrists. “I can’t eat if you don’t.”

She appears to see the logic of keeping herself alive. I nod and approach her again, slipping a folding knife from my pocket. The only way to get the plastic zip ties off is to cut them. I crouch down next to her. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of the knife, but I take care to hold her hands firm as I slice through the plastic; partly to make sure I don’t nick a vein, and partly to keep her from trying to slug me one the moment she’s released. I tuck the knife away and start to get up, only letting go of her hand once I’m out of arm’s reach.

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