Chains of the prisoner.

Candice's P.O.V.

It was like sweat and gasoline that stink of the hood that was on my head, and my stomach was turning as I was bouncing over the rugged roads, as the war gripped me like a noose, and I was fighting the zip ties that held my wrists, then my skin was scalding, and I felt that I was burning, but I could not scream, I was thinking of the faces of Mantovani, and he was screaming and this is how it sounded in the night, and passion that we had made love together was the strength that kept me going, and I was fighting The men who had captured me--'featureless black operatives--grumbled in low tones, their voices stifled by the hood, talking of directions and check points and I was unable to hear, trying to spread out bits of their scheme, the mystery of the game playing out like a black riddle when one of them spoke of the boss wanting her alive so he can negotiate with her, and the thought that I was now the bait in the sheriffs game and that I was now an instrument in his plan, a hook to lure Mantovani into the snare, sent shivers along My thoughts flew back to the cabin, and to the wild embrace of mom, and Sanna, with her willful stare, Conti, with his hurt smile, and dad, with his secure distance in New York, the family that I had struggled so hard to keep united now torn apart, and their love my lifeboat in the hurricane of violence.

Hours went on--or perhaps only minutes, time being as vague as a night--and the van halted at last, the engine was switched off with a shudder, and all that was heard was my gasping breaths and the crunch of the feet of the men getting me out of the car, my feet stumbling over the uneven surface, the cool night breeze slapping my skin like a slapper, bringing the scent of pine and distant sea. they pulled me inside, what seemed to me to be a building, and the air became stuffy and stifling, and when they pulled off the hood I stared at the ugly face of the world, and in this temporary jail in this shantytown. I was pushed into the chair by the lead captor, a man of rough features, scarred, and with cold blue eyes, and tied me more firmly to the chair, and he leant in close, his breath hot on my face, and said, "The sheriff has big plans of you, princess, you'll end the d'Agostino line forever, and I spat at him, and defiance burned in my chest.

Then they deserted me, and the door was closed with a finality that resonated throughout the room and I was trying my chains, jerking my wrists until I was bleeding, the agony something to remind me that I was alive, in conflict, not the pathetic creature they believed me, but the woman who had been in courtyards with guns and who had preferred love to security. I was swamped with memories--Mantovani, with his hands on my skin, slow and caressing in the low light of the cabin, his words of forever of the heat of our bodies, the passion that had united us with that first forbidden glance in the mansion living room, that made stepsiblings soulmates in the shadows of mafia. I remembered Mom, how she had so changed since I was a child, moving like a socialite at a distance, and like a fierce protector, raped, bandaged, gunfiring, her love a silent power that had mended old divisions; Sanna, the father who was so distant when I was a child and who had become a main-stay, now his approval of us a triumph, her unswerving support his rock in this storm; Conti, the brother-in-arms, who had so far been distant, and whose side we had always taken, and who had been wounded;

It opened its door hours later--or days? I was hungry, my throat was parched, the scarred man brought me a tray of water and stale bread and placed it on the floor too high to reach, which was mean to excite my spirit, but I stared him down and said, "Tell the sheriff I am not breaking; my family will find me, and the villa is ashes; and your stepdad is barely breathing, and your boyfriend are walking into our trap as we speak. The interest struck a blow next, and his words were the seeds of doubt--had they struck again? Was Mantovani all right?--and I almost cried, concentrating upon the love that was our lot, sheets twisted together, words of love in time of fire, the human instinct of clinging at something in time of wreck.

He pushed the food away, smacking the door a second time, and I pulled at the chains, moving the chair a little until my toes were against the tray, kicking it nearer, spilling the water, but scoring a small triumph in this infernal place a mouthful of cool water to get me through the struggle to come. There were sleeping intervals, nightmares with fire and blood, and Mantovani looking like a ghost, and his voice calling my name, and I woke up wet and the cold of the room penetrated my bones, but I hung to hope, saying to myself, They are coming; hang on. The scarred man came back later with another, a smaller man who kept in the shadows, and they questioned me, inquiring about our activities, about the Miami project, about the lapses of Sanna, but I kept my mouth shut, challenging them with an expression of my own, my thoughts running back to Mantovani and what he had taught me in the garden, self-defense, being able to maintain my mind, and when the scarred man struck me the smack was quick and easy, but I laughed at him, saying, "Is that all you can do? My stepbrother strikes more in bed.

Their anger increased, fascination mounting as the thinner man moved forward, his voice recognizable, and with a shock I saw it was Aston, another of the villa bodyguards, and the fact that he was betraying Giovanni, even though it pierced me as a human, made me feel cold, and his eyes cold when he said, You think you are a tough guy, but the sheriff knows, he has files on your real dad, and your mom and even the therapy sessions of Mantovani,-- make a person feel down to the ground. Talk, or we may release you, speak not, and we begin with your fingers, said Aston sourly, who I headbutted, the stars swirling in my eye, a stream of blood pouring out of his nose, as he reeled away cursing, and the scarred one held him back, drawing him away, and I was left alone, bruised but not broken.

The time added on, the isolation eating away at my boundaries, but I centered on what everyone could relate, the silence of the hugs of the dad, the lasagna dinners of mom, the bad jokes of Conti, those few smiles of Sanna, that passion that had blazed in forbidden glances and flowered into something undying, and had supported me. There was a repeat of the footsteps outside the door, and, as it opened, back came Aston single-handed, his face twisted in anger, the interest climaxing with his coming nearer with a knife, "You think you are special? The sheriff wants you cut before your boyfriend comes and he was tracing the blade along my arm, not with his knife but with his other hand, he took ahold of my chin, and I had to look at him. I spat at him, I kicked him there, in the groin, and he bent over, and the knife fell on the floor, and I charged to get it, but Aston rose up, and snarled, "Time to send a message," and, before he could strike, the firing of guns broke out, and the noise of the pandemonium filled the air, and Aston stood motionless with his eyes agape and the war shattered the walls.

The voice of Mantovani came howling through the noise, "Candice! Hold on!" and hope filled me, the longing to be reunited with them, and passion made me hot, and Aston took a hold on me, knife against my throat, and pulled me to the back door, and said, "Unless I can break you, then I will make him see you dead, then we went out into the night, and the compound was alive with fighting, and our men rushed the gates, and as Mantovani caught sight of us, he rushed after me, and a sniper-shot came down out of the rooftops, and struck him right in the chest, and he fell