Falling for a Trained Killer

Chapter Six

 The room was completely stunning, to say the least. There were white washed walls with expensive artwork. My eyes quickly spot that an unfinished Dante Gabrielle Rosetti is not a replica. The piece was a at least five million and distinctly the feature of the room. A brunette wrapped in darkened oranges, reds, and purples like only Dante Gabrielle Rosetti could do. Roman like waves caressing her perfect form of the artists’ favorite muse; William Morris’ wife. A carved wood frame of Classical Italian gold-leaf held it perfectly with the slightest touch off the wall. 

I was in awe of its beauty. The fact that this is one of my favorite artists from when I studied Art History at New York State University seems like an ironic coincidence. Rosetti had not finished the background. This was one of his many pieces left incomplete and, in my opinion, completely priceless. 

The aroma of this bedroom is a blend of dusty sandalwood and yellow roses from a blue vase on a jet-black marble table. The room itself is the size of an entire penthouse that would have been an easy few million back in New York. The black marble table with the roses was as large as a breakfast lounge. It is without a single view of dust. To support it is a chiseled hunk of glass. The table is surrounded by maroon red leather chairs and a sofa. Matching black woolen pillows were stitched with lines of gold. 

Small stone and wooden statues of mustang horses and pure breed stallions decorated several furnishings. White scented candles were lit around the room. They were all placed in bronze and plastered holders of differing lengths and designs. It was these candles that were creating that smell of sandalwood, and, as I inhale more, a touch of vanilla. 

This room is decorated brilliantly with an agenda of pure luxury and comfort. I don’t even want to try to conceive of how much all of this would have cost. And, if this is only one room in a massive mansion in Cuba, then its price alone was only a penny drop of what the rest could potentially amplify. 

I walk, carefully with my ankle, around to examine a few things in more detail. The African Blackwood panels of the floor I had landed on a few minutes ago were warm and the same material as the door to that library Marcus was in. I know it is the most expensive wood in the Caribbean, let alone the world, simply because I have several pieces of sculptured African Blackwood in my Art Gallery. The polished timber is without a single splinter. I walked across a blue and white decorated Persian Rug. It was slightly worn, but fit perfectly against the dark and light of the wood. 

My fingers trail over a white marble horse statue on the table next to the roses. The figurine is not large, only perhaps a foot high from the base. The horse is rearing back on its hind legs in a move of physical beauty and strength. One of its front hooves is tucked back to its chest, the other at a punch into the air. The flow of the thin black lines through the marble create waves of maned hair. The texture as I run my fingers along the line of the horses back, is smooth and incredible. The detail of its glimmering teeth to the refined strike of its’ eyes are so intricate that you can see the work of a master sculpturer. My expertise know that it is Italian Calabria marble, used by the finest artists as far back in history as Michelangelo himself, and the costliest in the world because of its immortal material.  

I spot my two black high heels are under the table. I thought they had taken my shoes when I was brought here in order to hinder my attempt at running. That was not the case, I just did not see them under the table before. I think that if I had worn them when I ran, that fall would have probably been worse. It was easier to bolt barefoot then in heels like those. 

I hobble over to the Rosetti to examine it further. The piece is a life-size portrait. The painting alludes to what an incredible accomplishment it would have been if Dante had finished it. A permanent mystery of tantalizing perfection. Every strike of the brush in the artist’s hand must have been so fluid. I know I should not, but I touch one of the brush strokes, letting the tips of my nails casually bump over the remnants of paint. I have only seen Pre-Raphaelite work museums and art galleries, not a at a house like this in a private collection. 

A Mexican style door on metal hinges leads to a bathroom with a porcelain tub in the middle. I walk in. My gross vomit from before on the floor, of which I was honestly embarrassed of, had already been cleaned up by someone. That was really quick, I think to myself. A shower has a huge copper fixture hanging above it. A line of white linen tied from the roof to large wooden poles encircles it. There is a rustic wooden vanity with double sinks on the far side of the bathroom. The bathroom itself is larger than the size of my bedroom back in New York. 

I don’t hesitate even thinking about taking a shower. I remove the green dress and lay it across at decently large rattan chair with a white cushion. I take a nice long shower, using some pricey looking shampoo and conditioner with Spanish writing across it. It smells like Mariposa flowers and is somewhat relaxing. 

I feel a little better from the shower. I dry with a towel and look in the mirror. My red curls are almost black from the water. I love my hair when its wet. The weight of the water indicates how long my hair in fact is, now resting at my lower back. 

I turn my neck a few degrees running my fingers over several bruises that had formed on my throat. I swallow trying not to remember the cause from the night before, but there they are. The imprinted determination on my skin of Lucca to end my life, and the words from Marcus that I was not to be touched. 

I wrapped a white towel around my body and another in a twisted tied knot for my hair. 

Now it’s time to think this through. I note that there is a very old looking white French style wardroom in the room and adjacent is a walk-in closet. I’m not going near either of them. I will not wear anything that is not mine. I put on my green dress again, though still barefoot. I hang the towels back in the bathroom letting my still slightly wet hair free again. My ankle is swollen with a red complexion. It is beginning to throb more. 

I look for a phone but there is not one in sight. There is also no computer. I remember seeing one in that library and hope that I can send an email for help, but not yet. There is however, a Bose sound system roughly the size of an alarm clock with a remote. Why not put on some music? Maybe I can blast something that will annoy the owner of this place, Marcus. I walk over to it and turn it on. Opera is the first thing I hear. La Traviata was playing in that library and now I am listening to The Three Tenors. So, Marcus likes Opera. 

There was a knock at the door. 

He said he was going to send ice to my room. I waver to the door and open it slightly. There was a small silver ice bucket left outside my room with a white hand towel and a jar of tablets. I took them and close the door again locking it. I sat on edge of the bed and took three pieces of ice from the bucket. I wrapped them in the little towel and placed either of my legs on the bed. I put the ice over my left ankle and held it there. It was very red, but it was beginning to hurt less. I must not have twisted it that badly. I looked at my right shoulder and notice that a bruise is beginning to form there from hitting the mantlepiece of the staircase.  

I guess I look pretty beat up at the moment. I placed the jar of tablets on the table. I do not know if they are actually pain killers or drugs. Marcus had drugged me the night before. I do not trust him or his men at all so there is no way I will risk taking one. I can handle the pain of a twisted ankle just fine. 

How do I get out of this? Night falls, while I watch a clock. Its dark and humid. Cuba, I think to myself. How do I get home? How do I escape? 

The American Consulate comes to a forefront of potential escape plans. If I really was in Cuba, which I beginning to believe is actually possible, then the U.S. Embassy in Havana would surely be my best chance home. I know that diplomatic relations between an America, including a citizen like me who does not have her passport with her, is not the greatest. If I can get there though, I would have military protection. But another thought comes to mind, was this madman Marcus or his guards really going to shoot me if I tried to leave? I can’t allow myself to doubt their capability in murdering me, not after what I witnessed in New York. 

Marcus’ order to leave me alone was the only thing that stopped Lucca from doing what he clearly was about to do to me there. A shudder ripples over me at the thought. Marcus worked for the Italian Mafia. Lucca clearly worked for them as well, but was under different instructions. James and Jonah were recent employees of Marcus that I had met and were clearly capable of whatever instruction he gave. 

An oval clock above the black marble table turned seven. I do not move but am growing very nervously afraid. What will he do if I don’t meet him for dinner? Before long, it was seven fifteen. 

I jumped slightly as I hear a knock at the door. I watch the wood afraid someone would break through it with an axe but nothing happens. The knocking stops. 

“You are late.” I hear Marcus’ voice and it sends a chill across my skin.