Lucas • Early Friday — Sometime in the middle of the night

A jolt to my body wakes me up, and before I open my eyes, I register the sound of engine noises and tires on pavement. Another bump from below me jostles me again. What the F. Wherever I am, it's stuffy and smells of musty fermentation mixed with cigarette smoke. My eyes slowly blink open into a darkened space full of dull brown blobs. 

My blurry vision and cloudy brain are making it hard to get a grip on my situation. I try to get up, but my body feels weighted down like I'm covered in a thick lead blanket. I try to move my arm, but my wrists won't budge at all from behind my back. Alarmed by this, my hazy brain frantically struggles to put the pieces together until it all becomes frighteningly clear— I'm tied up in the back of a car! No, a van! Shit! Icy fear shoots through my veins as my heart starts going as fast as the drive shaft beneath me. 

Attempting to turn over and see the driver, I realize my ankles are bound with a large black zip-tie as well. My body feels hella strange, and with great difficulty, I writhe like a worm over to my other side. But there are boxes blocking my view.

"Help," I cry out weakly, my throat extremely dry.

"Ah. E' sveglio," a strange, deep voice sounds from somewhere. My Italian comprehension is not great at the best of times, and right now, my thoughts are moving at a snail's speed.

"Where are you taking me?" I croak.

From the front of the van a different deep voice spits rapid meaningless word bullets that pummel my ears. "Questo spetta a noi saperlo e a te scoprirlo. Adesso stai zitto, cazzo."

Again, I lost most of whatever was said, but this time, I did catch the last part telling me to shut up and the unmistakable Italian expletive at the end. Cazzo , which means something along the lines of fucker or dick—I'm not quite sure, but I've heard Nonno say it quite often these last two weeks.

One of the men yawns and grumbles; judging from the amount of light entering the van, it must be the middle of the night. In the darkness, the thought I have to get out struggles to gain traction in the quagmire of my current state of consciousness, but I have little hope since I have enough trouble moving even the parts of my body that are not restrained. 

With heavy limbs, I twist my body to attempt to work my wrists apart, but it's no use—the sharp edge of thick plastic bites into my skin, not giving an inch. The vehicle complicates my struggles as it rocks my body back and forth, moving upwards through a sinuous terrine and over another series of bumps in the road. Glass bottles packed in the boxes around me clink delicately together as my body bounces with the impact, my head knocking against the metal floor.

Another wave of panic crashes over me. How many hours have I been back here? How much longer till we get to wherever we're going?

A brief orange glow comes from the cab, and the strong smell of cigarette smoke fills the van, and that, paired with whatever drug they gave me and my growing disorientation, turns my stomach.

Fuck. I think I'm going to be sick.

My heart is pumping violently, squeezing and stretching like it's ready to explode. My body temperature skyrockets, and my hands feel cut off from blood as my head goes light. Intense nausea overwhelms my senses, paralyzing me. I can't breathe!

"Help. I need air." I yell, but no answer is given. "I'm going to be sick back here. Let me out! Please!"

"Duro, amico," one of them replies. My dad has said that before. It basically means tough, buddy.

They aren't going to help me. Oh God. Fuck me!

Right now, death seems like a viable alternative to this agony.

"Please—" But before I can finish, my throat opens, and my lunch mixed with a Coca-Cola from hours ago comes rushing out. It's disgusting and only adds to the nasty-ass smell in the suffocating van. My body convulses again, and I heave another mouthful out onto the floor.

"Cos'è quella puzza?" one of the men exclaims, reacting to the smell from the front.

Looking up in anguish, I see the man in the passenger seat's brown eyes appear over the boxes. "Il ragazzo ha vomitato."

"Dio, che cazzo!" The other man snaps.

Windows begin to roll down, but that does squat for me. I try to scoot myself away from the mess, but it's nearly impossible. I turn and inch to the side wall of the van and try to take deep breaths to calm my heart while simultaneously trying not to breathe through my nose so I don't throw up a third time. I legit wish they'd just knock me out again with whatever drug they shot me up with earlier. This is one hundred and ten percent full-on misery. 

In the dimness of the van, I see a logo printed in green ink on one of the cardboard boxes. An image of rolling hills, trees, and the ocean is illustrated in detail, surrounded by an oval wreath of thin leaves and large berries. Under the oval, I barely make out the words Olive Vista Mare, which must be the company name.

I stare at the drawing to keep a focus on something to steady myself. It almost reminds me of the view from my house in Northern California, the undulating headlands, and the ocean beyond. I close my eyes and think of being home—safe and sound, back at my house with my mom and dad. My lashes grow damp.

It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. This is all just some big mistake.

At some point, a loud bang startles me awake. I guess I must have passed out again. I'm slightly less groggy, but I feel like complete roadkill at the moment. Kachunk. The van's back door swings open, and a harsh beam from a small, powerful flashlight blinds me.

A new voice I don't recognize speaks, "Alito puzzolente! Che cazzo è successo qui?"

He asks what fuck happened in here, though I think it's pretty obvious. I'm dying to wipe my mouth and face; it itches so bad. It's not like I haven't tried, but I've only managed to smear some of my mess around more with my shoulder. I'm sure I look like hell.

"Scusa. Il ragazzo ha vomitato."

The three men discuss what happened on the car ride here. I wish they would speak slower; there's no way in hell I can keep up. Something tugs my feet, and with immense relief, I feel the restraint on my ankles pop open. But just as quickly, I'm grabbed by the elbow and yanked out of the van to my wobbling legs. The crisp night air fills my grateful lungs, tinged with sweet saltness. We are standing in a wide driveway on some sort of remote property. An orchard of mid-sized trees flows the slope up the hillside in front of me, not another light from a house to be seen, and behind me stands a very large old stone house.

The man who pulled me out holds me firmly by the shoulder. His dark hair is tousled like he just woke up and his hazel eyes are warm, though they lock with mine intently. "What's your name, boy?"

Ah! English! My heart leaps at the familiarity of the words.

"Lucas."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Lucas," he says, and for the first time in hours, I feel a small sense of safety.

Another engine noise grows louder, coming from somewhere down the road, blocked by the trees. Soon, two headlights blind me as they break past the trees before turning and coming to a stop next to us in the wide gravel drive. The engine cuts, and a good-looking man in a white button-down dress shirt steps out of a drippy black Ferrari.

 The man from the car walks slowly towards me, a gold pendant around his neck glinting in the porch light. His unearthly blue eyes pierce into me, and panic floods me again. "What's going on? Why? Why am I here?"

His lip tugs into a fox-like smile. "Ragazzo, you're just the thing we've been looking for."

My eyes go wide. "What? Why?"

I try to struggle against the man with the kind face's grip, but his grasp on me just tightens like a boa constrictor around my bicep. The driver of the van moves behind me to catch my other arm, my wrists still bound, and jerks it down to let me know who's in control.

"'Inta 'a scurdata," he says softly as the unmistakable feeling of the hard end of a gun pushes into the side of my ribcage. "Your grandfather's going to pay for his mistake."

https://youtu.be/RHFM6njydLs