Primo Albricci Goes To Sleep

iii

Four white walls surround me, no windows. The only source of light is a rickety lantern in the left corner of the room. In the other corner of the room is a twin bed, but I'm sitting on the floor. Rocking back and forth in the fetal position. I think I've been down here for a week. At least four days; I've lost count.

The last thing I remember is leaving my house and someone cuffing my mouth with their hand, silencing my screams. I remember the sadness I felt when I found out Mike was dead and the terror when I found out that he may have been murdered and that I was on the phone with the murderer. Still I can't recall how I got in this room.

My thoughts are interrupted by a plate sliding in through the mail slot of the door. I quickly crawl over to the door and put my ear to the door. "Hello?" I ask. "Please let me go, I won't tell anyone anything."

Silence. The only reply is the sound of footsteps walking away.

I bite my lip to prevent myself from bursting into tears. I've already cried far too much while being down here. I look down at the plate to see lasagna. I force myself to eat. If the chance for an escape comes I won't be too weak to take it; plus, if they wanted to kill me I think they've gone through way too much trouble to do it by poisoning my food. They're probably planning something much more creative.

Oh my God. I need to get out of here.

I hear footsteps again. "Antonio è pronto per qui," a masculine voice says. Italian. You would think since I've taken so many vacations to Milan and Florence I would understand just a little Italian.

The doorknob turns and I quickly shoot up and run to the twin bed. Is this is? Is this when I finally die?

The door finally opens letting light into the room and effectively burning my eyes. I squint to see who's there: a man in a dark suit with his brown hair perfectly in place. He steps into the room and walks towards me with determination. With every step he takes my heart beats faster and faster.

He's only about three feet away from the twin bed when he stops. I look him dead in the eyes and he looks back. His mouth is set in a straight line and  I can't sense any type of emotions on his face. He says something that I don't quite catch and two men in similar dark suits and black sunglasses storm into the room. They walk straight towards where I'm sitting and each take one of my arms, pulling me off the bed almost effortless.

"What are you―stop!" Both of them have a vice grip on my arm. As much as I squirm and struggle I can't liberate myself from their grasp. "Let me go! Please, what are you doing?!"

The man just stares as the two other large guys manhandle me. He ignores my pleas and instead turns around and walks out of the room. The two men follow him, dragging me like some sort of prisoner.

"Please let me go. I won't tell anyone." At this point I've completely stopped resisting. Maybe if I just beg them to let me go they will be compassionate enough to do so. "Please. Ow, that hurts! Stop!"

"Farla tacere," the man leading says without turning his head. I wish he would speak freaking English.

When it starts to seem like my begging isn't going to work, I resort to dire measures and start screaming at the top of my lungs. We make it to a large steel door and I'm still yelling as loud as I can. The man leading turns around and to my surprise I see a gun in his hand. He brings it up and points it at my forehead. Oh my God, oh my God.

"Silenzio. One more word," he pulls back the hammer of the gun, "and I'll kill you right here."

I shut my eyes tight. Shutting up has always been hard for me, but you better believe I zipped my mouth in an instance. I can almost feel the barrel of the gun on my forehead, my palms sweating and my lips trembling uncontrollably.

"Understand?"

"I―" my voice cracks, "Okay."

I open my eyes only when I feel like the gun has been retracted to see that he has already turned around. He punches some numbers into a small keypad and opens the door. We walk through the door and into a small room with a little staircase. I can immediately hear the bass and loud thumping.

At the top of the staircase is another door, this one is unlocked simply with a key. On the other side of this door is . . . a club? Strobe lights flash red, blue, and green, a bar on the right is crowded with seemingly drunk and horny people, and the left is a dance floor at full capacity.

"Lasciala andare," the man says and they take their hands of me. Before I have a chance to make a move he says, "Don't even think about it. I'll shoot before you can even take your first step."

I nod and rub my upper arms. I'll definitely have bruises in the morning. That is, if I'm even alive in the morning. The mere thought of my possible impending death ignites tears in my eyes.

The two large men stand closely behind me as I follow the man in front of me as he walks across the club and up another flight of stairs. Up these stairs, we come to a another large man dressed in black slacks and a black button down. He stands before a red velvet rope, and I spot a holster on his side carrying a gun.

He looks at the other men after giving me a passing glance and gives them a subtle head nod before lifting the rope. Up here is a much different vibe. Unlike downstairs, everyone up here seems to be following a dress code. The men all seem to be dressed in nice dark suits while the women are all in very classy cocktail dresses.

They are all sitting in nice black couches, socializing and sipping on drinks. I turn to the opposite side of the room to see a few stripper poles with a few women in very minimal clothes doing their thing. On the couches not too far from the poles is an even smaller group of important looking people. That must be the v.i.p. section of the v.i.p. section.

We walk towards this group and I quickly become extremely self conscious. I look down at what I'm wearing: a dirty white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and no shoes. God, I look awful. I've been wearing this outfit for Lord knows how many days, and my hair must look like a freaking nest right now.

We make it to the "v.i.p. section of the v.i.p. section" and I'm standing in front of the small intimidating crowd of people. There's one man in particular that seems to be the most significant of all. He has dark hair and dark eyes. He looks me up and down slowly before looking at the man in front of me.

"Andrea," he says waiting. "Cos'è questo?"

"It's her, Marco," my almost murderer answers. Her? Me? What?! "Natalia Tselikovskaya."

He almost chokes on his drink. "Tselikovskaya?" Marco replies, eyes wide. "Nessun modo cazzo."

He gets up, removing his hand from it's position around a stripper's waist. He and my almost murderer―Andrea is his name, I guess―engage in some sort of excited handshake. I have never been more confused in my eighteen years on this planet.

"Così che cosa stiamo andando―"

"English, Andrea," Marco interrupts, looking around the room as if someone is eavesdropping. Does everyone in this club speak Italian but me?

Andrea tries again, "What are we going to do with her? Kill her? Use her as the bait?"

Marco seems to inspect me sideways, and shrugs. "Think I can make a decision like this? Antonio is going to be so . . . we need to take her to him right now."

Andrea nods in agreement and next thing I know, we're on our way to another location. We walk past the stripper runway-slash-stage and into a small nook to see a door. Of all the body guards I've seen tonight, the two guarding this door have to be the largest and most intimidating.

"Che cosa?" One of them asks.

"Credetemi è importante," Marco says.

The guard seems skeptical but nods slowly, and shoots his hand towards the door knob. My heart beats faster and faster as he turns the knob.

What on Earth is going on?