Page 32 of The Scarab's Game

He spoke again. “I wish we were flying to Napoli instead of sailing. It takes so fucking long.”

A bag flew over my head, shutting out the world.

“Massimo has so much junk to transport.”

A fist to my face. Stars in my eyes.

Deep breath, Em. You’re not in Venice.

The kick to my ribs would come next.

You’re safe. The door’s locked. He doesn’t know you’re here.

It was Enzo.

The man who’d beaten me. Not the brains behind my kidnapping, but the sadistic muscle.

I sank slowly to the floor, fumbling for the poker chip in my pocket. Breathing. Trying to suck in slow breaths, so he wouldn’t realize I was still conscious.

No.You’re not in Venice, Em.The slow breaths are so he doesn’t find you in the restroom.

The Scottish man spoke, quieter this time, as they moved past my door. “And we’ll be picking more up at the auction.”

I gripped the poker chip, holding it against my lips. Breathing. Still breathing.

“Once we have the disc,” said Enzo, “we’re almost done. The boss will be happy.”

Listen to them. This is important. Stop freaking out.

“Any chance we won’t win it from the auction?”

“None,” said Enzo. “No one will outbid Massimo for a simple golden disc, no matter what the auctioneer says about it.”

“And we leave as soon as we have it onboard?”

A bead of sweat rolled down my back, and I flattened my palm against the cold marble floor.

Their voices grew muted, they must have gone into the break room. If it had been someone else—the guard or Jean-Philippe,maybe even Dante—I could have strolled in and found some way to divert their attention long enough to shove the jammer under the sink.

But not…

Deep breath.

Not Enzo.

How long would they be there? Someone would get suspicious if I stayed in this locked room too long. If Enzo was one of those people, I was done for.

I pressed my cooled hand to my forehead, wiped the sweat away, and focused on calming my heart.

Swallowed.

Breathed.

I was in the room closest to the exit. If I slipped out quietly enough, they wouldn’t peek their heads around the corner, and I’d be out of the gallery in under three minutes. There’d be no stopping to finalize the blue scarab’s sale with Jean-Philippe. Someone else would have to come back for the scarab.

I’d need an excuse to leave.

Or not. I could slip out the back door and no one would ever know.