Kidnapped | Andrei Vasile

The study is dark except for the desk lamp and the bank of security monitors along the wall, and the whiskey in Andrei's glass went warm an hour ago. Out in the upstairs corridor, a framed photograph still lies face down on the hardwood in a scatter of glass where it dropped off the wall when his wife slammed the guest room door. He told the staff to leave it until morning.

Dinner went well, by any measure he trusts. He chose the table by the river, candles and white linen, and ordered a Malbec because she mentioned once, months ago and half asleep, that she liked it. She stole the last bite of his dessert, and he caught her wrist across the tablecloth and held it long enough to count her pulse before he let her go. It was Valentine's Day, and he has been learning, against everything his father raised into him, that giving her what she wants feels better than forbidding what she cannot have.

Then they came home, and she went upstairs and came down again in a short black dress with her phone buzzing in her hand, her friends already waiting somewhere across the city.

He said no, the same word that has made armed men reconsider their evenings, and she gave him the look he knows better than the scars on his knuckles, the one that means she heard him and intends to do as she pleases. She wanted one night without a guard at her shoulder. He laughed at that. "We are not normal people," he told her, and heard his father in his own mouth. She called him every name she knows in two languages, told him in anatomical detail where to put his authority, and slammed the guest room door hard enough to bring the photograph down.

At half past ten he checked the feed. The guest room light was off, and the corridor camera showed the door shut and the hallway empty. Asleep, he decided, and safe, and he poured another finger of whiskey and told himself that surviving an argument with his wife still counts as a win.

His phone rings at midnight from an unlisted number. He answers on the third ring. "Vasile."

"Beautiful wife you have." A man's voice, amused, the accent local. Andrei files it. "Spirited. She scratched me, you know. Drew blood."

Andrei says nothing. His eyes go to the monitor, to the dark guest room window and the closed door, exactly as they were at half past ten.

"Tell me," the voice says, "where is she right now? Do you know? Are you sure?"

The sound that comes out of Andrei is low and wordless, and on the other end the man goes quiet for half a second before he laughs. "Gotta go, Vasile. She's waking up."

The line goes dead.

The phone hits the study wall hard enough to burst the screen and knock plaster dust onto the carpet, and Andrei is in the hallway before the pieces settle. Darius is coming up the stairs at a run. Andrei takes him by the throat and the collar and drives him back into the mahogany shelves hard enough to crack them.

"UNDE ESTE SOȚIA MEA?" (WHERE IS MY WIFE?)

Darius's shoes scrape at the floor. "She taped the sensor," he wheezes, clawing at Andrei's wrists. "The window... she taped the magnet, we didn't..."

"You didn't." Andrei's fist goes into the shelf beside Darius's head, wood splinters, and something in his hand gives with a crack he will deal with later. "You did not CHECK. I pay you to think, Darius, and my wife walked past every man in this compound with a roll of Scotch tape."

He lets go. Darius folds to the floor, coughing.

Andrei straightens his cuffs. His split knuckles are bleeding into the French cotton, and his hands shake no matter how he holds them. When he speaks again, he keeps it low enough that Darius has to lift his head to hear.

"Call in every man we have, and every camera, informant and debt this city owes the family. Do it now."

He turns to the window. București spreads out below the hill in orange streetlight, and somewhere in it his wife is waking up alone. He gave her a choice between a guard at her shoulder and a window, and she picked the window.

Iubita mea. Sufletul meu. (My love. My soul.)

"Find her," he tells the glass, and the city behind it. "Or I will take București apart one brick at a time until there is nothing left in it to find."

The ultrasound printout is taped to the inside of Andrei's top desk drawer, where he can look at it without anyone catching him at it, and tonight the drawer has stood open for an hour. The study is lit by the desk lamp and the grey glow of the security monitors. His whiskey has gone warm in the glass.

Dinner went the way he planned it. He booked the river table, candles and white linen, at a place with the best alcohol-free cocktail list in the country, then ordered her sparkling water with lemon and watched her roll her eyes at him over the menu. At sixteen weeks the bump had just started to press against the silk of her dress, and her hand kept drifting to it. His memory, which used to hold routing numbers and the names of men who owed him, has made room for the name of her childhood dog and the date of every scan. She stole the last bite of his dessert, and he caught her wrist across the tablecloth and kept his thumb on her pulse a while before he let go. It was Valentine's Day, and he has been learning, against his upbringing, that giving her what she wants feels better than forbidding what she can't have.

Then they came home, and she went upstairs and came back down in a short black dress stretched tight over the curve of her belly, her phone lighting up with messages from friends already out somewhere in the city.

"No," he said, and she gave him the look he knows better than the scars on his knuckles. "Not dressed like that. Not in your condition." It was his father's sentence, word for word, and he kept going anyway. "Not without..."

She cut him off. He was called every name she knows in two languages, given detailed instructions for where his authority could go, and left standing in the hall while she stormed upstairs and slammed the guest room door hard enough to knock a framed photograph off the corridor wall. He listened to the glass finish settling on the hardwood, then poured a whiskey and told himself that getting through a fight with his wife counts as winning one.

At half past ten he checked the feeds. The guest room was dark, the door shut, the corridor empty. Asleep, he decided, the two of them, and safe.

At midnight the phone on the desk lights up with an unlisted number. "Vasile."

"Beautiful wife you have, Vasile." The man on the line sounds pleased with himself, and his accent belongs somewhere inside the city. Andrei commits the voice to memory. "Very spirited. She scratched me, you know, drew blood."

Andrei's eyes go to the monitor. The guest room door sits shut on the screen, the same as it was at half past ten.

"She keeps an arm around her belly, even out cold." A small laugh. "Sweet, really. Tell me, where is she right now? Do you know? Are you sure?"

The sound Andrei makes is one his men have only heard from him over a body, and the man on the line goes quiet for a moment before he laughs again. "Gotta go, Vasile. She's waking up."

He hangs up.

The phone leaves Andrei's hand and hits the study wall, the screen bursting and a puff of plaster drifting down onto the carpet. He is through the door before the pieces stop moving. Darius is halfway up the corridor, drawn by the noise, and Andrei catches him by the throat and the collar and slams him back into the mahogany shelving until the wood splits behind his shoulders.

"UNDE ESTE SOȚIA MEA?" (WHERE IS MY WIFE?)

Darius's heels kick against the shelf. "She taped... the window sensor," he gets out, both hands clawing at Andrei's wrist. "Taped the magnet. We didn't..."

"YOU DIDN'T." Andrei's fist goes into the shelf beside Darius's ear, splinters jump, and a bone in his hand gives with a crack he sets aside for later. "You did not CHECK, you did not THINK. I pay you to think, Darius, and my wife, who is carrying my child, walked out past every man in this compound with a roll of Scotch tape."

At the last scan he gripped the edge of the examination table while a heartbeat flickered fast and tiny on the grey screen, and the doctor had to remind him to breathe.

He lets go. Darius drops to the carpet, coughing.

Andrei straightens his cuffs, one and then the other. Blood from his split knuckles spreads into the French cotton, and the tremor in his hands carries on however he holds them. When he speaks again it is quiet enough that Darius has to stop coughing to hear it.

"Wake up every man on the payroll. Pull the cameras across the city, and call in each informant and each debt owed to this family. Do it tonight."

He turns to the window. București lies below the hill in sodium orange, and somewhere out in it his wife is coming to in the dark with her arm around their child. He offered her a guard or a window, and she took the window.

Iubita mea. Sufletul meu. (My love. My soul.)

"Find them both," he tells the glass. "Or I will tear București down to the foundations looking."