It’s been silent for a while, but I’m too scared to move. I can’t believe what I saw. What I heard. Benedetti. I know that name. And the one in the suit, the man who once saved my life, I think he heard when my boot caught the screw on the floor. Although I’m maybe overthinking it. He didn’t say anything, just carried on with his business.

My knees creak when I finally dare to straighten. I’ve been hiding, crouched for too long. I’m holding my breath, my eyes wide. It’s pitch-black here, but I’m too afraid to use the flashlight on my phone.

I take two steps, peek around the machine that shielded me from their view. The room is empty. I creep to the top of the stairs. My heart is still racing as I grip the ice-cold banister, my knees not quite steady as I make my way down. I tuck my phone into my purse. I’m at the bottom of the stairs, my foot poised to step onto the ground floor when I hear it. The cocking of a gun. Twice in my life now, I’ve heard a gun cocked at too close a range. It comes in the same instant as the arm that wraps around my throat, that presses my back against a chest of steel.

I scream as the light goes on and three men come into view. The older one in the suit. Two others. And the one who’s got the barrel of the gun at my temple.

“Caught the mouse,” he says from behind me, his voice a deep timbre.

None of the men smile. They’re all looking at me. They each have a weapon in their hands.

“Warehouse is clear,” one of them says.

“Should have been swept before the meeting,” the one holding me says.

The arm loosens around my throat, is removed entirely, taking the gun from my temple. It’s decocked.

I gasp for breath, stumble backward. The strap of my purse slides down my arm and the contents spill to the filthy floor. I drop to my knees. The man behind me, he walks around to my front and I’m hyperventilating. I’m looking down at the ground, at the tube of lipstick rolling toward his shoe. It’s polished so perfectly I can almost see my own terrified reflection in it.

A hand fists my hair painfully and he draws me up to my feet, up on tip-toe. He drags me toward him.

“A sneaky little mouse.”

It’s him. The one in charge. Mr. Benedetti was what they’d called him. And the look in his eyes is dark.

“Sergio,” the older man says.

Sergio. That’s right.

He releases me from his gaze, but not his grip. I can’t turn my head, but I shift my eyes to look at the older man.

“You’re going to be late for the meeting. I’ll take care of this.”

Take care of this? By ‘this’ he means me?

Sergio returns his gaze to me again. He’s blurry because my eyes have filled with tears. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes.

“You deal with the meeting, Uncle. I’ll deal with our mouse problem.”

The grin he gives me coincides with the tightening of his fist. It forces the tears from my eyes.

“Do you want me to leave anyone?” his uncle asks. “A cleaner?”

Cleaner?

“I’ll take care of it,” my captor says, never looking away. I get the feeling he likes my tears.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” his uncle says, and a moment later, we’re alone as three sets of footsteps disappear out of the old warehouse.

“What’s a cleaner?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I don’t know why I ask it.

Sergio draws me into his chest. “Don’t worry about that, mouse. What’s your name and what do you think you’re doing here?”

I’m going to be sick or pee my pants or both.

He’s still studying me, his gaze is intense, like he’s gleaning information just from looking at me. Then he does something that surprises me. He takes his thumb and wipes it across my face, smears my tear across my cheek and just looks at it for a long minute.

“Well?” he asks again, when he returns his eyes to mine.

“I…I…”

“I...I…” he mimics me with a chuckle, and releases me.

I stumble backward.

“Down,” he says, his voice a low, deep command. He’s pointing to the floor.

“Wh…what?”

“Your wallet. Give it to me.”

I blink away, look at the spilled contents of my purse. I remember how the other man had dropped to his knees at his command. How he’d kissed the toe of this man’s shoe.

“Are you hard of hearing?”

I glance back up at him, confused.

He gives a shake of his head. “Your wallet. Give it to me.”

I nod. I drop to my knees because I’m having trouble standing anyway. My hands tremble as I take my wallet and hand it up to him.

He opens it, takes out my driver’s license and drops the rest back on the floor.

“Natalie Gregorian.” He reads the address. “Asbury Park?” his eyebrows rise. “Far from home, aren’t you?”

“My parents’ house,” I say stupidly.

“What are you doing in Philadelphia, Natalie Gregorian?”

“I go to school here. University of Pennsylvania.”

“Ah.” He looks at the driver’s license again, then tucks it into his pocket and returns his gaze to me. “And what are you doing at this warehouse, in the middle of nowhere, tonight of all nights?”

“I have a project.” I wasn’t supposed to come tonight. I decided at the last minute.

Again, his eyebrows go up.

“Architecture. I was taking pictures.” I hear myself start to babble. “One of my professors opens an internship slot for one student every year and I was hoping to get his attention with this.” I have to force myself to stop.

Sergio looks really confused now.

“I heard the men come in and…I got scared and…I hid.” Shut up. Shut up. Just shut up. “No one’s supposed to be here,” I add on, unable to take my own advice.

“Including you. It’s a condemned building.”

I stare up at him and the weight of what I witnessed is slowly dawning on me. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything. Not really.”

“Not really?”

I shake my head. Swipe the back of my hand across my nose before rubbing the tears from my eyes.

“Where’s your car?”

“I took the bus. I don’t have a car.”

“Bus? You took a bus out here?” He’s looking at me like it’s the most unbelievable thing anyone has ever said.

“It stops four blocks away.”

He checks his watch. “Hand me your phone,” he says.

I do.

“What’s your password?”

“0000.”

He gives me an ‘are you serious’ look.

“It’s an old phone.” Not everything works like it should.

“Huh.” He punches in the code and sits on one of the chairs. I look at him as he scrolls through my phone. My brief memories of him are nothing like the reality. He’s tall, at least 6’4” if not taller, and big. His legs are spread wide and he’s leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. The suit he’s wearing barely contains him. It strains at his shoulders and thighs. And I guess he’s in his late twenties. Younger than I think he should be.

His gaze snaps up to mine and he turns the phone toward me. “Who’s this?”

It’s a selfie of Drew and me. Drew’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since high school.

“Drew.”

“Boyfriend?”

I shake my head, wondering why he’s asking. He turns the phone back toward himself, scrolls through more photos.

“Just taking pictures for your architecture class?” he asks, turning the screen back toward me.

It’s the single image I captured when the two men were brought in. I don’t even know why I did it.

“That was an accident.”

“How do you accidentally take that picture when you have sense enough to hide?”

I can’t answer that. “You can see. There are a lot of the warehouse.” I start to rise, to go to him and show him. But he halts me by raising his hand.

“Stay.”

I do.

He drops the phone to the floor and stands up, puts his heel on the screen and crushes it.

“No!” I’m on hands and knees trying to grab it from under his shoe even as I hear it splintering.

His hand closes around my hair again and he draws me to kneel up. He crouches down so we’re almost at eye level. I still have to look up, though.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got bigger problems than your phone right now.”

Sweetheart. He says it casually, like before.

“Please don’t hurt me. I really wasn’t spying. I wasn’t here on purpose. I…”

“Stop blubbering,” he says, releasing me. He stands. “Get your shit together.”

I nod. I sit back and I keep nodding.

He chuckles. “I mean get your things together. In your bag.”

“Oh.” I look at the spilled contents. I’m gathering my things and wiping my nose as tears are dropping to the floor as I consider what’s going to happen to me. I never called my mom back yesterday. She’ll be worried now. I should have called her. And dad. I don’t remember the last time I talked to him. Shit. What will they think happened to me? Will they even find—

“Natalie,” comes his deep voice.

He’s got his hands on his hips and is looming over me.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I say with a loud sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Christ, I believe you. Wrong place, wrong time.”

I freeze. I think for a moment he remembers me, too, but I was a kid then. He couldn’t. And when he speaks, I realize he doesn’t.

“I don’t think you’d be wearing a bright pink coat if you were trying to stay incognito. Blend and all. But you did overhear some shit.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I forgot it already. I don’t even know what it was—”

He shakes his head. “Get up.”

I reach for the phone, the last of my belongings.

“Leave it.”

I look at the destroyed phone. It wouldn’t do me much good now anyway, so I leave it and stand.

“Let’s go,” he says, taking my arm and turning me.

“Where to?”

“My house.”

“Why?” I pull back.

He looks at me. “So I can figure out what to do with you.”