Trapped by the Mafia

15. ...Find a Frog

Eat a live frog first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.

—Mark Twain

***

I want to die in Matteo's arms, but this day is yet to come. I return to consciousness in a more cruel embrace of zip ties that hold me to a chair. Matteo is next to me, alert and stiff as a board, tied to a chair in a similar fashion.

"Where are we?" I groan, to distract myself from the fact that I've soiled myself while unconscious. And puked.

After discovering this, I shut my eyes in exhaustion. Before embarking on a life so outside the norm, I should have replaced my body with an android version. No sweat, no piss, no poop, no puke, no problems. But even if this cyber-option was available in 2017, I won't feel what I've felt at the sight of Matteo. Is my awoken libido worth the embarrassment?

"Ground floor," Matteo rasps in response to my question. Whatever poison they pumped into our room, it must have scorched his vocal cords, because he swallows painfully after speaking.

My throat is burning too. "Are we still in the chateau?"

"Uh-huh."

I survey our surroundings. The walls are plastered an atrocious wallpaper. The furniture harkens from the same era as the upstairs' collection, only the plastic covers have been ripped off and heaped in one corner when they rearranged it to improvise an interrogation room.

A dusty expanse of a tabletop will separate Matteo and me from whoever is coming to torment us. A lamp with an adjustable shade is the only thing sitting on it, ready to shine into our eyes.

"Geez. All they're missing is a Top Secret file folder. Are you sure you aren't a spy?"

"Only if I'm a sleeper agent."

"You could be. You have that vibe."

"Bryn. Don't you ever get a headache from thinking too much?"

I shut up and look around some more.

Our captors shoved the useless overstuffed couch out of the way, with the matching armchairs piled on top. So, they have multiple henchmen to do heavy lifting while we were out.

"How long have we been out, Matteo?"

"Don't know."

Gosh, I hate how strained he sounds. "Lovely talking to you."

We sit in silence for a bit, and it's not great for my racing mind. I can't bite my nails, I can't fiddle, I can't do anything to distract myself from terror welling in my gut. "What did I get myself into, oh God... oh my God... Lord, why me? What did I do wrong to deserve this?"

"I'd give you a bulleted list, but my hands are tied."

"Ha-hah." A giant bump, like a bug bite, itches in the side of my neck. I roll my head to the side with a sob, trying to scratch the itch. "What the hell is this?"

"An antidote's injection spot."

"Good grief!"

"Stop acting hysterical. It doesn't help us." Matteo watches my every move, and what else is there to watch? The wallpaper?

"I'm not hysterical."

"Perfect. Stay that way. Don't show any emotions toward me." He thinks for a second. "Don't show any emotions, period. They're like dogs. They'll latch onto anything to tear a strip out of you."