Page 40 of His Cruel Exception

Yes, please.

That’s a sight I want to see.

Are you for real? Have you fixed a car before?

I will learn. It can’t be that hard.

You’re a caveman.

A sudden tap against my window makes me jump so violently that I nearly drop my phone. I turn, expecting to find Igor standing outside, but the man looking at me through the glass isn't him, although there's something vaguely familiar about his face.

It takes me a moment to place him, and then I remember seeing him at Igor's office when I went to collect the money last year. I put my phone away and retrieve the envelope from the glove box, checking that the money is still inside before opening the car door and climbing out.

“Hi, did Igor send y⁠—”

I don't even get to finish my sentence before the man grabs me, yanks me against his chest, and clamps one of his hands over my mouth. His other arm wraps tightly around my stomach, pinning me against him as he begins dragging me away from the car to the dark alley beside the club.

I try to dig my heels into the ground, but he only tightens his grip and hauls me forward. My heart starts pounding, and I grab at the arm around my stomach, desperately trying to create enough space to pull away. The familiar panic begins creeping up my chest, and I can feel my breathing getting faster as the sounds from the street grow fainter behind us.

“Don’t scream and this won’t be worse for you,” Igor says, stepping into view just as the man finally stops dragging me.

He removes my glasses from my face and slips it into the pocket of his trousers, and everything beyond a few feet becomes blurry.

“Remove your hand from his mouth,” he informs my captor.

His hand disappears and I suck in a breath. “I have your money right here, you don’t have to manhandle me.”

My voice comes out shakier than I would have liked, and I hold the envelope toward him, hoping that once he takes it, he'll tell his overgrown bodyguard to let me go.

“My money has been paid with interest,” Igor says.

A mixture of confusion and deep unease rolls over me. I know I haven't paid him yet because I'm still holding the five thousand dollars, so what’s he talking about?

Before I can ask him to explain himself, he continues speaking. “I had no idea you were valuable when you came to me or that you know one of the biggest Camorra clans in the world.”

What? Antonio paid my loan? But I never told him about it. Even my friends don't know about the loan because I was too embarrassed to tell them how desperate things had gotten last year, so how on earth did Antonio find out about it?

I swallow and straighten as much as the arm around my stomach will allow, trying to appear braver than I feel. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Andy, Andy,” Igor tuts, slowly shaking his head. “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, how come Antonio Scalera paid your loan with interest?”

“My name is Alex,” I hiss through my teeth. “And if my debt is paid, why are you here?”

“I’m here because I need your help,” he says. “You’ll come with me and I’ll keep you for a few days then reach out to Antonio Scalera to pay me ten million dollars to have you back. I promise you won’t be maltreated. Three full meals, a nice room and anything you need. What do you say?”

I stare at him, my mouth falling open. I don’t know which part of his plan is more idiotic: the fact that he thinks Antonio will hand over that much money or that he seems convinced I’ll get in on it.

“Are you nuts?” I demand, my voice rising in pitch. “You just described kidnapping me.”

“Don’t see it that way. It’ll just be you helping me out.”

My chest begins to tighten, dread spreading through my abdomen. No, no, no, this can't be happening. I haven't had a panic attack since I started psychotherapy with Dr. López, and although it took several sessions before I began noticing any real improvement, I've been making steady progress. Thankfully, my assessment didn't indicate that I had panic disorder, and with the techniques she's been teaching me, I've gotten much better at recognizing when my anxiety is getting out of hand and calming myself down before it becomes overwhelming.

I try to inhale deeply through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth, concentrating on the rhythm Dr. López taught me, but I only manage to complete one proper breath before the next one gets stuck in my chest. The alley seems to grow darker around me, and the edges of my vision begin to blur until I can no longer make out much beyond the indistinct shapes of the buildings on either side. My ears begin to ring, drowning out most of the sounds around me, and although I can hear Igor speaking to the other man, his words are so muffled that I can't make sense of them. A wave of nausea rolls through me, leaving a bitter taste of bile at the back of my throat.

“Antonio. Antonio. Antonio,” I keep whispering, repeating his name until the syllables begin running together.

I don't even realize I'm doing it at first, but once I start, I can't seem to stop.