The Poseidon Brothers carry me down a concrete staircase and into a windowless four-walled basement room. This is maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after they’ve kidn*pped me, which tells me I can’t be more than ten or fifteen miles outside of Florence. Which direction they’ve driven me in, however, I haven’t got a clue. I could be in Prato to the north, or just outside of Fiesole on the way to wine country to the east. It’s a toss-up, not that it matters much.
The brothers lay me out on a carpeted floor, cut away the tape that binds my ankles and wrists. When they pull the tape from my mouth, it sends a wave of pain shooting through my face.
“You motherfuckers,” I whisper.
“‘Scuse me, mate?” spits Poseidon One. “You say somethin’?”
Sitting up, I take a good look up a
