Chapter 3 3

Alton threw a damp, chemical-smelling rag directly at Amalia's face. It hit her cheek with a wet slap and dropped to the floor.

"Clean the wine stains off the living room rug," Alton ordered, his voice flat. "Consider it a test. Pass, and maybe you get your passport."

Amalia didn't argue. She picked up the rag and a bottle of heavy-duty carpet cleaner. She walked into the massive, sunlit living room and dropped to her knees on the expensive Persian rug. She sprayed the cleaner and scrubbed the red stains with all her strength, her bruised knuckles aching with every movement. She kept her head down, trying to make herself invisible.

The heavy front doors of the penthouse suddenly burst open.

Amalia's hands froze. She scrambled backward, pressing her body deep into the shadow of the large leather sofa, her heart kicking into a frantic rhythm.

Two men in black suits dragged a third man into the living room. The man in the middle was covered in blood. Thick, dark drops of it fell from his clothes, staining the pristine hardwood floor.

Chadwick walked out of his study. He held a crystal glass filled with amber whiskey. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying calm.

One of the bodyguards placed a silver, sealed cooler box on the glass coffee table. He unlatched the heavy metal locks with a loud click.

The moment the lid popped open, the heavy, metallic stench of raw blood flooded the living room. It hit Amalia's nose, making her stomach heave violently.

Driven by a morbid, uncontrollable terror, Amalia slowly raised her head. She peeked over the edge of the leather sofa.

Inside the cooler, resting on a bed of melting ice, was a severed human hand. The flesh at the wrist was hacked clean, the bone and muscle exposed in a gruesome display.

Amalia gasped, slapping both her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her eyes widened so far they hurt. Her lungs refused to take in air.

"Is this Montgomery Astor-Clarke's man?" Chadwick asked, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. He looked at the severed hand with the same boredom one might look at a misplaced pen.

"Yes, sir," the bodyguard nodded. "He was trying to destroy the last security tape of Davina."

Chadwick let out a short, dark chuckle. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and slammed the heavy crystal glass onto the table. The sound made Amalia flinch.

"Box it up. Mail it to Montgomery," Chadwick ordered, his voice cold and detached.

Amalia's entire body was shaking so violently she couldn't control her limbs. As she tried to press herself further into the corner, her elbow hit the plastic bottle of carpet cleaner.

The bottle tipped over and hit the floor with a hollow thud.

Every head in the room snapped toward the sofa.

In less than a second, the two bodyguards drew their guns. The black muzzles pointed directly at the shadow where Amalia was hiding.

Amalia let out a choked sob. She threw her hands in the air, tears streaming down her face, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

Chadwick raised his hand. The bodyguards lowered their weapons.

He walked slowly around the sofa. His long legs brought him to where Amalia was cowering on the floor. He stood over her, a dark silhouette blocking out the light.

"I... I was just cleaning," Amalia stammered, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely form the words. "I didn't see anything. I swear."

Chadwick slowly crouched down. He reached out into the cooler, his fingers brushing the melting ice, and then moved his hand toward Amalia's face.

His freezing, wet fingers traced the line of her jaw. The shocking cold against her warm skin sent a violent shudder through her entire body.

"Are you scared?" Chadwick whispered. His voice was incredibly soft, almost intimate, but it carried a psychotic edge that made Amalia's blood run cold.

Amalia nodded frantically. Hot tears spilled from her eyes, running down her cheeks and dripping onto the back of Chadwick's icy hand.

Chadwick stared at the tear on his skin. His expression twisted into sudden, violent disgust. He snatched his hand back as if she had burned him.

He stood up abruptly. "Alton. Clean up the blood. And get rid of this crying nuisance. Throw her in the storage room."

Alton grabbed Amalia by the upper arm. His grip bruised her skin instantly. He dragged her across the floor toward the hallway.

Amalia thought they were going to kill her. The image of the severed hand flashed in her mind. Pure survival instinct took over. She twisted her body and dug her fingernails deep into the back of Alton's hand, dragging them down to draw blood.

Alton hissed in pain. He let go of her arm, pulled his hand back, and slapped her across the face with brutal force.

The impact snapped Amalia's head to the side. Bright lights exploded behind her eyes. A sharp ringing filled her ears, and the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth from a cut inside her cheek. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed.

Alton grabbed her by the collar, dragged her down the hall, and threw her into a narrow, pitch-black storage room.

"Make another sound, and you lose a hand," Alton warned, his voice dripping with malice.

The heavy door slammed shut. The lock clicked loudly.

Amalia lay on the cold floor, surrounded by total darkness. Only a thin sliver of light leaked in from under the door. Her cheek throbbed in agony.

She slowly reached into the pocket of her jeans. Her trembling fingers brushed against a small plastic bag. Inside were three strong sleeping pills she had secretly packed before leaving her home country, a desperate measure of protection she had prepared because she was terrified of traveling alone.

She pulled the bag out. She stared at the sliver of light under the door. The paralyzing fear in her chest began to harden into something else. Desperation.

She gripped the pills tightly in her fist, her fingernails digging into her palm. She was going to drug him. It was her only way out.