Through all that she’d endured at Vicente’s hands – the kidnapping, being shoved into small spaces, blindfolding and threatening, the man had never struck her. Vicente’s henchmen had done so three times in the forty eight hours she’d been under their watch. Once had been when she’d asked to go to the bathroom – another when she’d attempted to shift in the chair she’d been shoved into. The final time had been her actually attempting to break her bonds – an infringement that had earned her a blow that had bloodied both her lip and her nose. It was clear that Giorgio Acconci was nothing like his stepson. She was being held in a magnificent manor in the hills of some Italian isle – she had no idea which one as she could understand absolutely nothing of what was being spoken in her midst. Not a single one of her captors appeared to speak English, and if they did, they didn’t deign to speak it to her. Despite the splendor of the marble hall she was in, all Grace registered was its frigidity.
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