Chapter Two

Cecilia

Present time

I refused to show weakness.

All my life, my mother had warned me to be careful, to be aware of my surroundings, and to trust my instincts. She claimed we all had a sixth sense; we simply needed to learn to heed its counsel. It was the little voice that spoke to us when we parked our car too far from the restaurant and the one that cautioned about the darkened parking lot or the broken streetlight. It whispered in our ears, setting our senses on high, as we came to a point of decision, urging right instead of left.

At a young age, while other parents told stories with bunnies and rainbows, my mother explained the life in which I was born. She explained without the gory details that her father, my grandfather, had taken what he believed to be his. It was similar to the biblical story of Cain and Abel, two brothers fighting for their father’s blessing. In my mother’s story, the father wasn’t spiritual but a hard and dangerous man. Instead of encouraging both of his sons or taking the accepted route of leaving his realm to the oldest, my great-grandfather left it up to his sons to determine the best, the strongest, the one who would one day take over the fortune he’d built.

Nearly ten years later with my great uncle buried and my grandfather, Lorenzo Dellinger, in control of the dynasty, he married my grandmother. In the next few years my uncle and mother were born. They too were raised on stories of responsibility. My uncle Dante would one day hold the reins to the family business. My mother’s job was to marry appropriately. My father was welcomed into the family. And nearly ten years later, I was born.

My father, Barron Abernathy, didn’t enter the world of Dellingers, one of the wealthiest hotel moguls in the world, empty-handed. No, my father came with his own wealth, something that pleased my grandfather. While known for real estate, my father’s family was also invested in the underworld. When my father married my mother, the Dellingers became more with abundant resources.

I’ve never been privy to the particulars of my family’s empire, only cautioned that Father’s and my mother’s shared wealth, as well as the association of my grandfather, made me a target. Of course, that threat wasn’t taken lightly. My parents encouraged my wings while keeping bodyguards ready to protect me. While I was in college, their presence was suffocating. Now, as I work diligently in the legal world of Dellinger Hotels, the bodyguards’ existence was as natural as that of my assistant or friends.

I blinked away more tears as I recalled Matthew’s assassination. That was what it was. My bodyguard, one who had been with me for a few years, was on his knees as he pleaded for my safety. The memory of the shot delivered to the back of his head made my stomach lurch. I saw it occur over and over in slow motion each time I closed my eyes. No bulletproof vest could shield a close-range shot delivered to the skull.

Seconds later, an injection pierced my neck. My scream came and went as the world went black. My last visions were of my office high in the skyline of New York. I had been there after hours. Most of the other executives and staff had left for the day. My home awaited, yet I truly loved my job. Dinner could wait. I had one last report I wanted to read and a few emails that needed my attention.

How had my abductors gotten past the building security?

Were there other casualties?

How was I transported from the building without being seen?

When I woke, I discovered I was locked in what I believed to be a closet.

The space wasn’t bigger than six feet by six feet. With only the light streaming from under the door, I found that there was an old mattress-like cot, a sheet, a gallon of water, and a bucket with me. The cooled temperature made me quickly and acutely aware that I was without clothes. Fear as I’d never known kept me from calling out or banging on the door. Instead, I wrapped the musty-scented sheet around my body and waited.

Hunger twisted my stomach that water couldn’t alleviate. I also feared that the water jug would not be refilled anytime soon.

Do I need to conserve it?

What will happen?

More and more questions swirled through the cyclone in my mind.

Despite the revelation that I was naked, I was most certain that I hadn’t been violated. Yes, removing my clothes was a violation. I acknowledged that. However, my bigger concern was sexual assault. I’d found that the only tenderness I felt was on the back of my head beneath my hair.

Had I fallen?

Was my hair pulled?

I didn’t know.

The one question I knew was a part of my mother’s ever-present warning. “Cecilia, you must be careful and keep your bodyguards near. Honey, every person has an Achilles’ heel, and you, dear, are your father’s and mine. Over the years, your family has made decisions, life-and-death decisions. The Abernathys and Dillingers have left people in our wakes who could return seeking revenge. You could be that revenge. Anyone who knows us knows we would stop at nothing for your safety and your life.” She squeezed my hand. “I pray every day that we never have to negotiate for you, but we will. Know in your heart that we will.”

That was the one truth I held tight in my heart. While her warning had finally come to fruition, I knew my father and grandfather would negotiate. I needed to wait.

And wait I did, until the water was gone and the hunger grew to the point of desperation.

After what I believed—based on voices beyond the door—was the second day, I finally called out, asking for the simple acknowledgment that I existed. It was a terrifying precipice. Staying quiet kept me in solitude. Solitude kept me from being seen or touched. It also deprived me of sustenance.

Though I hadn’t seen my captors’ faces, I’d heard voices beyond the door. I knew they belonged to men. Their tenors and tones will remain in my memory forever. My constant prayer was that forever was a long time and that I’d live to a ripe old age.

I called out. “Hello. Help. Please help.” My voice was foreign and scratchy from non-use. Each word came stronger than the last.

The door finally opened.

I gasped and squinted as I faced my captors. There were three men present. Even now I couldn’t see their faces. Each face was covered by a hockey mask, the kind with only holes for eyes. Though the air beyond the closet was musty and dust danced in the rays of artificial illumination, the larger room was better than the odor of the bucket.

I assessed my kidnappers. Without seeing their faces, I looked at their clothes. They all wore the same jumpsuit that reminded me of the ones that maintenance workers wore but without the patch for the name over the pocket. The only aspects differentiating them from one another were their heights and hair color.

“Drop the sheet.”

I stared, unsure which man had spoken from behind the hockey masks.

A tall one stepped forward. “You called us. What do you want?”

I wanted so many things.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted my parents.

I wanted Matthew to be alive.

I needed food and water.

I lifted the empty jug. “My water is gone and the bucket...it’s...”

“Drop the sheet,” came from the shortest one. “And pick up the bucket. It stinks. You can dump it.”

This wasn’t a job fit for an Abernathy, and yet I was hardly in a position to argue. Instead, I did as they said, searching for the bucket’s handle. It didn’t have one.

“Pick it up,” short-man said again.

Holding my breath, I reached down, holding the rim to the hard plastic and lifting the container filled with my own waste. The muscles cried out in my fingers and arms, straining under the weight. Before my abduction I could have carried equal weight. I worked out regularly, lifting weights at least three times a week. However, with each step, my arms shook.

My imprisonment, the inability to move more than a few steps, and lack of nourishment was already affecting me.

Following the short man, I forced myself forward, the stench from the bucket increasing as the contents moved. Scrunching my nose, I took in the mostly empty room. I had no idea where we were.

The windows were boarded over and the ceiling showed water stains. The floor was plywood, the strips along the walls meant there used to be carpet.

Unable to carry it any farther, I set the bucket on the floor. “Please.”

The three men laughed.

“My fingers,” I tried to explain.

“Hug it,” the middle-sized man suggested.

“Or you can take it back in the closet and when it overflows, remember you decided not to empty it.”

My empty stomach twisted and acid bubbled upward into my throat. Bending my knees, I did as he said and wrapped my arms around the five-gallon bucket. Not being able to see the floor before me, I nearly tripped, piercing my toe on the tack along the edge as I stepped into the bathroom. Putting the bucket on the cracked and moldy tile, I lifted it again with my fingers on the rim and emptied the bucket into the filthy old toilet.

At least the plumbing worked was my thought as I flushed at least two days’ worth of waste down the drain.

“May I rinse it out?”

One of the men laughed. “So polite.”

“You can rinse the bucket after you suck all three of us.”

I stood straighter. “The bucket is fine.”

The middle-sized man who had offered me the deal shrugged. “Back in the closet, princess.”

I bristled at his nickname. I hated the sound of it and all that came with it. The tabloids had dubbed me American royalty at a young age and often referred to me as Princess Cecilia.

Ignoring the comment or their three sets of eyes, I carried the lighter bucket back to my cell. Once I was there, I again lifted the empty jug. “Water?”

Before I could be offered another unacceptable trade, the tall man took the jug from my grasp and shut the door. My body trembled in what I hope was relief as the lock was activated. At least I was away from them.

Then again, I was once again alone in darkness except for the thin line of light. I waited for the water, finally lying upon the dirty cot covered by the sheet. I may have drifted to sleep or maybe time didn’t move. It was difficult to judge.

I woke to the sound of the lock and the opening of the door.

“Stand up and drop the sheet.”

With the light shining behind him, I saw the jug filled with water and a bag in the man’s other hand. I didn’t hesitate to obey, standing and dropping the sheet to the floor. This was the tall man. Through the hockey mask, I saw the way his eyes filled with an unsavory glow as he handed me the jug of water.

“If you want the food, kneel.”

My empty stomach twisted at the implication. The best possible scenario was humiliation. The worst was the other man’s earlier proposition. I hesitated but not for long. My limbs were weaker than they’d been. The sight of the brown paper bag had awakened the dull hunger to a point of starvation. I held back the tears as I did as I was told, and fell to my knees.

The other two men laughed and made comments about the princess begging. I didn’t blink, didn’t move, and didn’t say a word of retort as I kept my eyes glued to the brown paper bag. Finally, he tossed it inside the closet and to my relief, locked and shut the door.

Time passed in intervals marked by voices and sparse offerings of food. Seeing me kneel and hearing me beg for food unfit for consumption was one of the kidnappers’ favorite pastimes. As time wore on, I became used to it even as I hoped it would be the worst humiliation I’d suffer at their hands.