Elisa woke the next morning to the sun shining through a large loft window. She was lying on a large leather couch in a strange place. She came close to panicking but regained her senses and simmered down to a mere frightened and disoriented as she took a look around the room—she noticed the ’98 Mauser rifle in the corner; Matiel’s trademark and namesake. She had a wool Scandinavian-style quilt draped over her body. The events of the night before dawned on her that moment, and once again her anxiety level skyrocketed.  She must be in the Mauser’s lair now…he owned an extremely sophisticated flat. It was a large deluxe penthouse, although all she could see at the moment was what must be the living room. He had expensive furniture and classy accessories. “Well, look who’s up. The little bird has opened her eyes!” She jumped and turned to see Matiel standing in the doorway, clad in a navy pinstripe suit and matching fedora with black Bleyer spectators. She noted the Bleyers.

“Must be a dancer,” she thought to herself. “Strange, he doesn’t seem the type.” Matiel sauntered over towards the couch where Elisa lay, with a Manhattan in his hand. He was partial to a citrus-y drink in the morning, and the vermouth really woke him up. He sipped his Manhattan and gazed at Elisa. She, on the other hand, was a bit intimidated by the whole situation. Here she was, in the penthouse of a major figure in the enemy mafia, vulnerable and alone.

“Don’t worry, prinsessa. I’m not going to hurt you, nor am I going to violate you,” he said, brushing a speck of dust off his coat. “It’s not my style.” Elisa relaxed a bit at this, but the fire in her brown eyes was still blazing. She was furious…this man had kidnapped her and was holding her here. She didn’t like it one bit, even if he had no evil intentions. “Miss Morelli, Saturday evening is not a good time to be hanging around dangerous territory snooping where your nose doesn’t belong. I don’t care how attractive you are,” he paused to take a look at her beautiful feminine features, “you don’t belong in Olut.”

Elisa stared at him indignantly. “Don’t tell me where I belong, scatto. I will spend my Saturday night as I please. What gives you the right to judge me? And you certainly shouldn’t be speaking of my beauty.”

Matiel studied her face with the corners of his mouth upturned into the makings of a smile. “You’re a feisty little bird, aren’t you? Well, no matter,” he said to her, striding over to the couch and sitting on the arm of it closest to her head, “Like it or not, you’re very attractive. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more beautiful.” The tough mobster gingerly brushed a lock of hair out of Elisa’s eyes. Elisa looked at him curiously, reached up as if to caress his face, and promptly slapped him.

“Don’t ever touch me. And I demand you return me to my family.”

Matiel stood up and rubbed his jaw, turning to look out the large loft window overlooking New York. “You’re not really the one to be giving orders here, prinsessa. Now either you accept my kind hospitality—at a great personal risk to myself—or I will have no choice to turn you over to Isoisä. And I don’t especially want to do that.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Matiel raised an eyebrow. “I would.”

Elisa rose from the couch, straightening her clothing, and wandered over to Matiel’s kitchen. Matiel set down his cocktail glass and hurried over to investigate. He didn’t want her getting into his knives.

“Just what is it you think you’re doing?” He looked at her with puzzled brown eyes, as she looked up from various bottles of alcohol sitting on the counter.

“Making a drink. I’m thirsty.” She picked out a bottle of vodka in order to mix her martini and read the label. “Grey Goose? You have Grey Goose? But you Finns pride yourselves on your vodka, God knows why.”

Matiel shrugged. “Only the best, dollface.”

Elisa looked up from the formidable-sized cocktail glass. “Don’t call me that.”

            While the two were bickering in Matiel’s penthouse, there was a very upset, very worried father in the bar of Morelli’s. Elisa’s father was Il Padrino’s right-hand man, and a very dangerous one at that. Giuseppe Morelli slammed down his fist on the bar, causing the two large hit men he had employed to find his daughter to jump as startled looks spread across their faces. Giuseppe was a somewhat small man, but had an extremely intimidating look that allowed him to get the respect he deserved from the brotherhood. He had lost his wife in a mob war three years prior, and did not want to lose his daughter as well. She was the apple of his eye, and the only real family he still had.

            “Find her. Find her now. If you don’t,” he said, turning and giving them both cold stares, “you will both be very, very sorry. You do not want omertá catching up with you, do you? Do whatever it takes. I want my daughter back here by eight o’clock tonight, unharmed. If one hair is out of place…” The two large men looked very uncomfortable as they nodded and turned to leave.

            “Remember. The Butcher and Morelli will both be watching. Don’t screw it up.”

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