3) Are You Kidnapping Me?

As I listed potential scenarios regarding concrete being poured over my feet one after another, one of those sudden, harsh Mediterranean winds swept across the deck. My wet clothes clung to my skin, making me shiver. Matteo took a deep breath and, in a single fluid motion, slipped his expensive, dark jacket off his shoulders. His intention was to drape it over me. He was acting out of a purely protective, or at least humane, impulse.

But just as the edge of the fabric was about to touch my skin, I recoiled backward as if I had been given an electric shock. I held my hands up in front of me like a shield.

"No, no!" I said in a panic. "Please. Objects carrying someone else's body heat trigger a thermal shock in me. Thank you, but no."

Matteo froze, his jacket suspended in mid-air. I could see a tiny muscle twitching in his jaw. As he teetered on the absolute edge of his patience, I decided to introduce myself quickly to bring the situation under control and place myself in the "harmless civilian not worth eliminating" category.

"My name is Nova," I said, avoiding eye contact by staring down at the yacht's polished teak deck. "I'm twenty years old. I study computer science at Boston University, developing projects on cybersecurity and software engineering, but I also work part-time in graphic design. In other words, I am a completely harmless civilian. My parents live in America. I only came to Crete to visit my aunt and uncle for summer vacation. That is the entirety of the situation."

As Matteo threw his jacket back over his own shoulders, he didn't take his dark eyes off me for a single second. A low, rumbling sound vibrated from his throat.

"Matteo," he murmured.

"What?" I asked, adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose.

"Just Matteo," he said, maintaining that authoritative bass-baritone resonance in his tone.

I was still staring at the gun holster beneath his jacket and the statue-like men in suits standing behind him. The filterless voice inside me broke its restraints once again, and I muttered suspiciously, "Then why did I get the distinct impression that you are one of those dangerous, movie-style mafia bosses named Matteo who rule the underworld?"

The corner of Matteo’s lips twitched upward ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, but his face instantly reverted to its icy, rigid expression. He took a step toward me, his towering shadow completely eclipsing my body.

"The sun must have gotten to your head," he said bluntly. There was a tone in his voice that closed the floor to any further discussion.

He turned around and, without so much as a blink, delivered a definitive command to one of those marble-faced men on the deck with the demeanor of a military general:

"Release the girl at the first port. Get her out of my sight."

I watched his retreating figure as I retreated to a safe distance.

Mathematically speaking, I was saved—yes. But my internal developer instincts were collecting highly compelling data suggesting that this man was definitely not "just Matteo," and that even if I were dropped off safely at that port, I wouldn't be able to just let this mysterious code go.