“Have any plans tonight? Appuntamento romantico?”
I let go of the cart, no longer in the mood to help him push it up the square. “Enjoy your fish, Massimo.”
He groaned. “Aw, c’mon. S’only a joke! One of these days the answer will be yes, and I want to be the first to know!”
I’d have flipped him off if there weren’t so many children milling around. Instead, I walked away.
“Hey! Help me with this cart!”
I turned around to tell him off, but a sight over his right shoulder caught my attention instead. A woman had just stepped into the square from one of the side streets. She looked like most tourists did upon their arrival to Vernazza—a little frazzled and tired from lugging their suitcases on the train for so many hours—but there was something off about her. She paused and squeezed her eyes closed, leaning against the building behind her. For a moment I thought she just needed to catch her breath, but then I watched in slow motion as she tottered on her feet and, as if all her bones had been zapped from her body, collapsed to the ground.
“Shit!”
I ran for her, sidestepping chairs and tables and tourists.
“Move!”
A woman huffed as I collided with her shoulder. I threw an apology over my shoulder but kept running. No one else had seen the woman faint. There was too much going on in the square.
By the time I reached her, she was laid out on the ground, her brown hair covering her face. Her backpack had protected her head from the stone, but she hadn’t regained consciousness yet. Massimo was right behind me by the time I reached her.
“What happened? What do we do?” Massimo asked, wiping his hand down his face.
I stepped forward and put my cheek right over her nose. When I felt her breath hit my skin, I exhaled.
“Well, she’s breathing.”
“And her pulse?” he asked.
I brushed some strands of brown hair off her neck and pressed my fingers to the soft skin below her chin. It was steady.
“What the hell happened to her?”
I swallowed down my panic and shook my head. I had no clue.
A small crowd had gathered around her by then.
“É morta?!”
“I don’t think she’s breathing!”
It wouldn’t be long before the entire square had gathered to ogle her.
“She’s probably just dehydrated. Let’s take her in there,” I said, pointing to the building behind us. It was a lucky break, her passing out right in front of the building our family had owned for as long as anyone could remember. My grandmother had operated it as a bed and breakfast. Now it was abandoned, but it was out of the sun and the view of tourists, and we could call the doctor once we were inside.
Massimo unlocked the door, using one of the keys on his jingling chain.
We carried her in together, careful to keep her head steady as we pushed boxes and cobwebs out of the way. There was a bed in the bottom bedroom, one the manager had used when the bed and breakfast was still open. I shook out the bedding, checking for bugs, and watched as dust flew into the air. It wasn’t clean, but it was better than putting her down on the wood floor.
Massimo and I maneuvered her onto the bed and stepped away, giving her space. She looked like hell. Her hair was matted around her face, sweaty and stuck to her cheeks. Her skin was sickly pale.
“I’m going to go grab her stuff before someone nabs it,” Massimo said, darting out of the room and back out onto the street.
I knew I needed to move, to go find a doctor and help figure out what was wrong with her, but my feet were rooted in place. It’d been five years since I’d seen a woman lying on a sick bed, but the memories came flooding back all at once.
“Luca, come help with this bag!”
Massimo’s voice snapped me out of my memories. I spun away from the bed and ran out to help him gather her things. The amount of luggage she’d carried with her could have filled four wardrobes. Massimo lugged the suitcase inside and I grabbed her backpack, which weighed more than she did.
“No wonder she passed out,” Massimo laughed, groaning with the weight of the suitcase.
We were outside her room, dropping her things against the wall when I heard a rustling on the bed followed by an exasperated English accent.
“Oh my Liam Neeson. I’ve been taken!”
I’D SEEN MOVIES; I knew this was just what the gritty underbelly of the European sex trade must look like. I’d woken up disoriented in a dusty room. Very little light passed through the boarded-up windows and the stench of mildew hung in the air.
I’d known it was bound to happen eventually. My mother had given me great bone structure, and growing up with naff brothers had forced me to cultivate a fantastic (and apparently, highly abductable) personality. I supposed that even with the smell of sick clinging to me, my raw sexual aura had shone through, and now rogue sheikhs and warlords were in the other room trying to outbid one another for me. To save myself, I’d need to somehow dampen my agreeable nature during auction.
Voices sounded out in the hallway, hushed tones I strained to hear. I tried to sit up and then groaned at the effort. They’d likely already put something in my system, possibly via poison dart on the train. I wasn’t tied down or anything, so they’d have taken chemical precautions to ensure I didn’t run away.
When two men rushed into the room, I pushed myself back against the wall and held my hands out to stop them from getting any closer.
“I don’t know how much you’ve paid for this—millions, I’m sure—but my family is very wealthy, and they’ll double it for my freedom.”