Page 89 of Spin Control

My voice is surprisingly steady as I say, “I need proof.” Elio picks up his phone, taps a couple of times, and then hands it to me.

There, on the screen, is a live video feed. My eyes go immediately to Elizabeth—she’s in workout clothes and wearing my Red Sox hat, standing still in the middle of a room with crown molding, an enormous chandelier, and ornately carved furniture. I know that being in a beautiful room does not necessarily mean she’s being treated well. But at least she’s not in some dirty basement filled with medieval torture devices.

On the other side of the screen is Stas. I haven’t seen him in months, and the part of me that’s been coiled tight since his arrest relaxes as I take in the angular panes of his face and his blond hair, longer than I’ve ever seen it. He’s in a similarly decorated room, but unlike Elizabeth, who looks like she’s about to melt a wall with her mind, Stas is lounging on a divan.

“Now that we understand each other,” Elio says pleasantly as he takes his phone from my hands, severing my connection with the woman I love and my best friend. “Let’s discuss logistics.”

There’s nothing I can do but nod.

35

Waking up to discover you not only have a pounding headache but that you’re in a room that could have been decorated by Marie Antoinette sounds like the beginning of a mafia romance I would absolutely read.

Unfortunately, having it happen to you in real life is a one-star experience.

Though there is a glass bottle of water and a blueberry muffin on the bedside table, there is not a clock or radio or television. I know better than to even look for my phone. The man who abducted me probably threw it into the Hudson River.

After using the en-suite bathroom, I drink the water and eat the muffin, praying they aren’t drugged. When it’s clear they aren’t and my head stops pounding so hard, I explore the room. I’m not shocked to find cameras in plain sight and the door locked. The windows, predictably, are also locked, but I can at least open the curtains. Based on my view, this room is on the third floor and it’s late afternoon.

If I had to guess, I’d wager decent money that I’m in Italy. It’s not like it’s hard to put together who might want to abduct me.

I am surprised, though. I figured the stunt with The Drift was the opening salvo in a long game of character assassination. I thought my cloud would be hacked, that my apartment would be broken into, that the men I’ve fucked would be offered cash to talk. I thought I was prepared. I thought I had heeded Stas’s warning.

But I got it wrong.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The windows are too thick to break, the furniture is too heavy to move, and even if I did find a way to get a window open, the fall to the ground would certainly result in an injury. There’s not much I can do until someone opens the door.

Knowing that—acknowledging that—is important. Once I accept my situation, I can start making a plan.

Soon, there are voices in the hall and the sound of a key in the door. When it opens, a granite slab of a man fills the entire frame. All he says is, “Come.”

I have a feeling that if I refuse, he’ll sling me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—a situation I’m sure would piss any woman off, but would make me go nuclear in a way that would not be helpful right now.

So I exhale through my nose and follow him. I take note of the number of doors we pass, the turns we take, the location of the staircase that takes us down to the main floor.

We walk into a dining room, where a few men are seated at a table. The sentient, monosyllabic mountain points to a chair. “Sit.” I grit my teeth as I follow his instructions.

“Damn. You are not the person I wanted to see.”

There’s no stopping my gasp. Because Stas Dubinsky is sitting across from me.

I blink several times before studying his bitter coffee eyes, sharp cheekbones, and blond hair. He’s objectively handsome in photos and videos, but no media accurately captures how beautiful he is. It’s as if he stepped out of a graphic novel where everyone is drawn in steady, angular strokes.

It’s only when I feel the pressing need to exhale that I realize I’ve been holding my breath while genuinely gaping at him. “Not so unflappable now, am I?”

Humor flashes in his dark eyes. “Hello, Elizabeth.”

“Hi, Stas.”

“Nice hat.” Right, I put Wes’s Red Sox hat back on after my shower. How I slept in it, I have no idea. Though I suppose “sleeping” is a generous way to describe being forcibly sedated.

“I guess it’s rude to wear a hat at the dinner table,” I say.

Stas lifts a shoulder. “It’s even more rude to abduct people. Your table manners are impeccable compared to the rest of our companions.”

“Wait,” I say, more puzzle pieces clicking into place in my brain. “So you—?”

He nods. “I’ve been here for a few weeks.”