Page 50 of The Italian Obsession

“What is the one fucking rule of travel, Olivia?” He holds his finger up to accentuate his point. “One rule.”

“Lock your bags.” I sigh sadly.

“Exactly. Are you so fucking lazy that you couldn’t lock your goddamn bag?”

My emotions bubble over. “If you came in here to upset me, then don’t bother. I’m upset with myself enough about this.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily. “I don’t need this shit. This is the last thing I need to deal with. I have enough on my plate without having to worry about you.”

What?

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper angrily. “You don’t need this shit. You think I do?” I slump back into my seat. “Just go.”

“I’ve called a lawyer. He’s on his way.”

I wonder if I ever knew anything about him at all. “Thanks,” I eventually reply. We sit and stare at each other for a moment. He looks terrible with dark circles under his eyes and a pale complexion. “Are you all right?” I ask.

His eyes drop to the floor, and I see the muscles flex in his jaw. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you look like shit,” I fire back. This hard-to-get act is wearing thin. “And why didn’t you return my calls?”

“Because…” He stands, suddenly angered. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

What?

My face falls and my eyes fill with tears. I blink to try and hide them. That was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

Without another word, he rushes from the room, and the door slams hard shut behind him. I hear the lock click as he locks me in.

What the hell was that?

I can’t hold it anymore. I can’t act brave for one minute longer. I screw up my face and cry.

SEVEN HOURS LATER

I lie on the cold, hard bed of the jail cell.

It’s dark and eerie in here, and I’m scared.

I keep thinking back to all the international drug-trafficking cases over the years and how I haven’t really paid much attention to them or followed up on what the outcome has been. Drug traffickers in other countries get forgotten. Nobody even questions if they are guilty. It’s just assumed that they are.

It’s ironic, really. I’m one of the people who forgot them. Will they forget me?

The door opens and the light flicks on. A policeman escorts a man in a suit into the room.

“Hello.” He smiles. He’s older, handsome, and from the look of his suit, loaded.

I scramble to my feet and pull my shirt down. I feel so exposed and vulnerable in here.

“My name is Mario Botecci. I am a lawyer, and I represent Ferrara Industries.”

He shakes my hand.

“Hi.” I force a smile as I try not to get my hopes up.

“I have secured your release.”

My eyes flick between him and the officer. “Really?”