Scali stopped at the gates of a secure villa. It's snuggled into a mountainside like a barnacle. Much of the grounds hide behind a stucco wall, so I lean in my seat to study the landscape while we are waiting for the gates to open.

It's not promising. River valley has widened here, but the drop to its bottom from the villa is significant. The river's branching over a bed of boulders, grinding pebbles into sand. Greenery overtakes anything that stays above the waterline for long enough to dry out. Driftwood withers wherever it hits the shallows. One white, knobby branch bangs restlessly against two boulders barring its path, eager to make its way downstream already. I instantly connect with it on some level. Give me a stone wall right now, and I'll bang my head on it till it bleeds.

The gates screech as it opens, each of its two sides wide enough to let Scali's SUV in. The flatland is at a premium in the mountains and the building is huge, so the gang lucked out that the courtyard hasn't been landscaped yet. They just leveled it out and covered it with the same crushed mudstone used as road covering for the last few miles. Basically, it's a parking lot. Eight vehicles are already inside the enclosure, parked cheek-to-jowl, to leave enough room for Scali's group.

He parks and doesn't waste his time commanding me out of the Cayenne. Maybe he's afraid I'll throw up again. I don't reassure him on this account. Once the door opens, I pop out with the willingness of a Jack out of his box. Any degree of freedom is precious now.

The rest of our cavalcade is still roaring their engines on the approach, so as a bonus I can assess the security measures.

The villa's brand-new, with a part of it still under construction. The gates are fully functional, equaling another obstacle for an escape. On the upside, the location is so remote, accessible only by what—ten?—miles of a treacherously serpentine road, that they rely on lock-and-key, barbed wire on top of the wall and a human guard in a tiny gatehouse rather than modern electronics. I'll take that over the electronics.

As for the villa itself, I would never have bought it. Aesthetically, it's a three-story nightmare of rococo meets sordid medieval meets ultra-modern.

"Where the hell did you rent this place from?" I snort, biding my time, because the other vehicles start rolling in. I need to confirm that Ryan is alive. "Discount Palaces by Magpie, Magpie and Son?"

"A friend," Scali replies laconically and pushes me toward the column-framed entrance. Since I'm cuffed, I can't point at the arches, turrets, panoramic windows and golden molding, so I keep nodding my head at the offending elements of architectural design. "Just look at this travesty! And that! Why, Scali, why?"

My tantrum earns me a glimpse of Ryan. He's in the back of the older truck, trussed on top of a stained tarp. Judging by its shape, it hides Gleb's body. Ryan's retained consciousness where a weaker man would have passed out. When our eyes meet, he even gives me a tiny shake of his head.

Unfortunately, Scali's had it with me. He pushes me forward to break our poor-man's telegraph. That toss of Ryan's shaggy-again mop could have meant I can't get out of the restraints, but why would he waste our one precious eye-lock on the obvious? The reason eludes me. It must have been something else.

But what?

What was he trying to signal?

While my mind churns through the guesses, I stumble on the uneven stones, following Scali inside the villa.

Unlike the over-decorated exterior, the interior is thread-bare. No gargoyles and obsidian columns that the Hollywood villains favor. No gilded commodes. No bronze pots.

The ground floor is so empty that our steps would echo off the walls and the double-height ceilings, if it wasn't for mattresses laid over the hardwood floors for the fighters. A couple are already occupied by the guys off-duty or maybe wounded. The stench of feet, alcohol and antiseptics feels out of place in the ballroom or whatever this posh space hopes to become.

It's not all open concept though. Walls block off a kitchen, though I can see parts of it through arches and a long, bar-like window-counter.

More rooms must be out of sight, judging by the size of the structure, but I'm more worried about the grand staircase. The stupid thing starts smack in the middle of where most of Luca's men would sleep. The escape down it will be a PITA.

Scali taps his foot on the lowest step. "Kamila, we don't have all day."

"Actually, we do."

He growls and I scurry to him, because I've seen all I needed to see so far.

We climb to the second floor, which misses the middle part for the sake of creating a gallery. Also, to hang a crystal chandelier the size of the Empire State Building through it, but for now it's just hooks in the ceiling.

The curved part of the gallery, facing away from the mountain, is designed for milling and enjoying the views from the floor to ceiling windows.

The opposite side widens into a gaming or a sitting area, still unfurnished. Beyond that, the wall sports more doors. Closets, maybe a service room or two, plus an ornate door with a guard right outside it.

Naturally, that's the one Scali points me to. "In there, Kamila."

I chose to go along the skywalk, by the bay windows.

"It's a master bedroom, isn't it?" I ask Scali.

"Move your feet faster, and you'll find out sooner."

"I would, but the view!" The enticing view of small service buildings across the yard. They're taking Ryan toward them.

"Don't make me come over there."

I sigh theatrically and hasten my steps. Ryan's still alive and he's walking upright. Once I've arrived at the future site of the cozy nook, the guard opens the door.

Yup, a master bedroom. And it's the least spartan space we've passed so far. "Nothing but the best for Luca and his sex slave?"

"Get inside," Scaly grates through his teeth. Being a jailor doesn't sit well with him. It might be triggering, given his history with being held in a sex dungeon with Bryn.

"I bet you're on the third floor, Scali. Do you even have a bed, or just a dirty mattress?"

Judging by the solid ceiling above our heads and the more modest staircase landing, the plentiful space there is divided into spare bedrooms, nurseries, billiard rooms and whatever else the masters of the villa wish to have. No jail though. Again, lucky for us!

"Don't worry your pretty head about my bed," Scali says. He doesn't add, worry about yours, but I do.

My bed dominates the room, despite the suite's majestic size. Sheep-skin rugs are strewn around it hunting-lodge style. An honest-to-god fake Persian rug covers the wall behind its metal headboard. The bedding is lustrous from all those hundreds of threads that wove it. The pillow-cases lustfully cling to the piled pillows. The ceiling mirrors reflect this barbaric grandeur. More mirrors, divided by molding of frilly columns take up the wall opposite to the misplaced carpet.

What the actual hell? Despite Scali breathing down my neck, despite my being a prisoner, my feet root to the sheepskin, as I gawk at the eclectic décor. "What the actual hell, Scali?"

"I was told they're waiting on the furniture delivery. Pozolo takes their time to hand-craft to specs and with their time-honored quality."

"And until then, it's the familial heirlooms?"

"Guess so."

He motions for me to sit on the bed, then hike all the way up the pillow mountain. I know what's on his mind, so I squirm with my hands cuffed behind my back, almost pulling a muscle in my haste. I'd rather hurt myself than give him a reason to manhandle me. No, I'm not worried about my virtue with Scali, I just hate the idea of being helpless.

He cuffs me to the frame, arms outstretched to either side, like some ancient virgin on a cliff allocated for a sea monster's perverted delights.

As soon as Scali marches out of the doors, exchanging hushed words with the guard posted outside, I rattle the cuffs and bite back a curse.

If only Pozolo had rushed this particular order! They are posh furniture makers, lovingly crafting one-of-a-kind pieces from precious wood varieties. It's that wonderful, timeless style that I crave right now. It's so, so much harder to chain someone to a solid mahogany headboard than to the metal bars.

I rattle my cuffs again, just in case. The brassy sound rings a death knell in my ears. This monster could be a strategic reserve of titanium for a small nation.

Oh, well. I'll have to use my brains, not brawn to extricate us. A terrible pity, that. The morning's killing spree whetted my appetite for fighting. It's been too long, and my brain has been farting too much as of late. I let my body sag against the bars, and shift until the cuffs no longer chaff my wrists.

A contented sigh escapes me. Never underestimate the value of minor comforts. Maybe things are not as bad as they seem. Maybe I can salvage the situation somehow. Ryan is alive. If Luca wanted him dead, Scali'd have shot him already. We disrupted their trade, so Luca didn't get my treasure.

Just when a smirk curves my lips at this thought, the footsteps approach down the hall to stop on the other side of my door. Luca's voice says something to the guard before the man opens it for him like some lackey.

But I don't give a fuck about this servile behavior.

My gaze fastens to Luca, or, more precisely, to the thing that he holds in his hands. Right there, pressed to the breast of his impeccably white shirt, rests the reason he needs serfs to get the doors for him.

Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!

They got our treasure.