The Wrath of La Vipera Nera

Content warning: Themes of kidnapping, physical violence, emotional distress, and gun violence.

The Wrath of La Vipera Nera 

By Jessie Kyler 

“How long has it been?” Ale’s mouth was dry, but sweat dampened his lips. 

“47 minutes,” a voice replied. 

Closing his eyes, Ale drew in as much breath as his lungs would allow, then let it out in a deep sigh. 47 minutes. It felt like hours. There was no clock on the wall, no sunlight in the windows, no way for him to gauge how long he’d been captive; he would just have to keep asking. 

He sat in a steel chair, his hands tied behind his back. The room around him was pitch dark, and though impossible, it seemed to be growing even darker. It would still be light outside, he’d been taken just before he was to meet his wife for dinner, but to him it felt like night. The thought of his wife sent a sharp jolt of worry down his spine. Would she do as expected and try to rescue him? He could hope not, but that hope would be irrational. She would come for him, she was the reason he’d been taken in the first place. The only ounce of hope that remained was the certainty he had that she would not make rash decisions. She would plan, she would prepare, she wouldn’t let her emotions fog her judgment. At least, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t. 

He tried to use his brain. He tried to gather as much information as he could, but the room seemed to muddle his senses. The air was thin, hot, and smelled of dust. An attic? No, the floor was cool, hard, concrete. It felt small enough that, had they not been tied, he could reach out his arms and touch both walls. But whoever spoke to him certainly was further than that. Their voice didn’t bounce off the concrete floor, it didn’t reverberate off any walls, but he could tell which direction it came from. They weren’t close enough that he could sense them near him, but the room felt far too small for them to be more than an arm’s length away. He would have to rely on something else. What could he remember? 

He had just left the house. His head was down and he was fiddling with his car keys. He didn’t see them coming. He was suddenly flung forward, having been shoved from behind with the force of a linebacker. He braced to hit the ground, but had been caught by two more pairs of hands. One, callused and rough, covered his mouth as another threw something around the top of his head. It was soft. A blanket? A sweatshirt? Something that could be tied. 

He had kicked wildly, tried to pry the hand from his face, tried to scratch, tried to bite, but it made no difference. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he heard a car approach. Fear forced his muscles to tighten to the point of pain. He tasted the coppery metallic taste of blood, but it was from his own cheek, caught in the clenching of his jaw. The sound of a car door sliding broke through the fullness in his ears. A van. He felt his feet lift off the ground, a pain stabbing under his arms where he’d been held. He came down hard on the floor of the vehicle, his face feeling cold where the hand had lost its grip. A scream grew in his throat, but hardly made it out of his mouth before he was harshly grabbed again, the hand returning to his lips. The door slid closed and he felt the vehicle lurch forward. His hands, sweaty and shaking, were pulled behind him and tied together. 

Someone spoke from the front of the van, firm and demanding. “Don’t hurt him unless you have to. The less damage we do, the better.” 

That should have been reassuring, but he knew he wasn’t the target. His wife had made enemies. It was inevitable in her line of work, and he knew the danger. Years with no incidents had given him a false sense of security. He should’ve taken the time to prepared. A self-defense class or two might’ve done him some good, or learning to shoot a gun. It wasn’t for his wife’s lack of insistence, he just kept putting it off, and now it was too late. 

Surely she had prepared, right? Surely she wouldn’t fall for a trap like this. She was clever. He had faith in that. 

He didn’t know how long they’d driven, not for sure, but it was long enough for the hand on his mouth to relax, and for him to know that yelling wouldn’t help him. When the van stopped, he’d been pulled out of it, and carried through a heavy door he remembered hearing slam. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps on stairs, and the echoes that followed. A stairwell, then. He struggled to focus, the shoulder of one of his captors digging uncomfortably into his gut. He tried to shift himself to sit more comfortably, but he found he was held too tightly. There was the sound of unintelligible whispers, another heavy door, and moments later he was lowered to his feet and pushed down onto a hard metal chair. 

“Alessandro Focetta.” It wasn’t said as a question, they knew who he was. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a response. “Your wife, La Vipera Nera. How much do you suppose you’re worth to her?” He couldn’t fight them off, he knew that the second they’d assaulted him, but he could keep his mouth shut. 

He heard his interrogator tap impatiently on something. A table? “I’m sure it’s hard to place value on things when you’re the most successful thief in Los Angeles. Money doesn’t mean the same thing to you as it does to everyone else does it?” Silence, again. Ale was sure he’d make it out of this, and if his wife did too, she’d surely have something to say about being called the most successful thief in LA. Successful? Without a doubt. Thief? She’d fume at the label. He found it hard not to laugh aloud at the thought. 

They were right, money didn’t mean the same thing to them. It meant something far different 15 years earlier, when the two of them survived off bread, peanut butter, 69¢ boxes of dried pasta and canned tuna, but now? Did money mean anything at all anymore? 

“It doesn’t matter. Once she sends us $20,000, you’re free to go.” Ale felt a smile form on his lips. He tried to swallow the laugh that was threatening to burst from him, but it came out anyway. 

He heard a clatter, something thrown to the floor? Anger laced his interrogator’s voice. “What the fuck is so funny?” 

Ale sucked in his lips, trying to stifle his laughter. “$20,000? You’ve gone and pissed off La Vipera Nera for twenty. Thousand. Dollars?” He fought another wave of laughter, reminding himself where he was. He didn’t know these people. They could still kill her, there were plenty of people who’d pay more than $20,000 for her head. “You could’ve asked her for $20,000. She might’ve wondered what for, but she knows what it’s like to be desperate for money.” It’s what had gotten her into the business she was in, after all. “Instead you decided to kidnap her husband and hold him for ransom. No, I don’t think she’ll give you the money, even if you really were just going to let me go. I think she’s going to kill you.” He felt a rush of cool air as the man stood. 

“You better hope she makes this easy for all of us.” And with that, he was gone. 

Ale leaned back, feeling the cool steel of the chair through his shirt. It felt nice. Wherever they had him they hadn’t bothered to turn on any air. He wondered what plan his wife would cook up, and let himself imagine it for a few minutes. The silence was broken by footsteps on the hard floor, and he felt someone lean over him. His breath quickened, but he forced it to slow. Their hand gripped the cloth at his head, and he felt a rush of cooler air against his forehead as it was removed. He opened his eyes, expecting to take in a view of the room, but it was complete darkness. He didn’t hear the person retreat, but he no longer felt them next to him. 

“How long has it been?” He was suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. 

“Half hour,” a voice answered. It wasn’t his interrogator, it was too shaky, too unsure. He sounded young. Someone roped into a task that was way over his head. Ale almost felt sorry for him. 

He didn’t know how long his wife would take. Part of him hoped it wouldn’t take long at all, but part of him knew that the longer it took, the more solid her plan would be. In the meantime, the room seemed to suffocate him. Sweat beaded on his face, he could feel it slide down his neck. He hoped he’d be conscious when she finally did come, he felt as if he was swaying, but in the darkness he couldn’t quite tell. 

“How long has it been?” 

“47 minutes.” 

It had to be close to an hour now, he would have to prepare himself for hours longer. He wished he had a drink. 

Suddenly, a wedge of light illuminated the room as a door swung open. Ale turned away, unaccustomed to the brightness. Through squinted eyes he took in what he could of the room. The walls were covered with foam squares, to dampen the sound. The only furniture was the chair where he sat, and an office chair that sat parallel to him. He could see someone standing in the corner, still bathed in darkness, the person who’d been keeping track of time. How had he done so, in the dark? There hadn’t been the light of a phone, at least that Ale had noticed. 

A frantic boy entered, his face pale and drenched in sweat. “Cut his hands free, we need him. She’s here, she’s inside!” He looked over his shoulder as if expecting her to jump out at him. The man in the corner was clearly shaken by the words, jumping forward to cut the tie at Ale’s hands. 

“Inside? How did she get inside? Darwin was guarding the-” 

“She shot him! She didn’t even say anything, she just came out of nowhere, shot him and forced her way in!” He sounded as if he was fighting back tears. 

Ale wasn’t the vengeful type, and under most circumstances, neither was his wife. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel at least a little bad. 

“So what are we going to do?” 

“Give him to her! That’s what she’s here for, isn’t it?!” 

Ale felt their fear, though he wasn’t sure why. He had been them, or at least, similar to them. He had been a terrified 20 year old, not sure where his next meal would come from, not sure what he would have to do to make rent. These two certainly didn’t seem the masterminds behind this plan regardless. No, that was the man who’d interrogated him. A man old enough to know better, a man arrogant enough to think he could kidnap Alessandro Focetta and live to tell the tale. And with an extra $20,000 in his pocket! 

“The man who was in here before, the one who asked me questions. Who is he?” They froze, or as near to freezing as they could get while still shaking. “His name, I need his name!”There was more force behind his words now, they shifted uncomfortably on their feet. 

“Leon. Leon Metzger.” 

Ale nodded. With the door open he could hear someone yelling, and the crack of a gunshot. “I can find my way from here.” He left the room, closing the door behind him. Sparing them could be dangerous, but killing them would be senseless. Metzger was the one he wanted. Plus, he could easily give them $10,000 and he was sure they’d do whatever he asked. He could remember when $10,000 seemed life changing. 

The hallway outside the door was like that of a parking garage, only narrower. It was concrete on the walls and floor, with large orange tinted lights along the ceiling. He went toward the commotion. This wasn’t a massive operation, half a dozen men at most, and two of them were in the room he’d just left. How many stood between him and his wife? He broke into a run, hoping the next person he ran into would be her. Another gunshot rang out, the sound bouncing its way down the halls. He was close. He turned a corner to see his knight in black, bullet proof armor, a seething glower on her face. Her expression immediately brightened as she hastened to him. 

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” She looked him over, seeming afraid to touch him in case he was injured. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m assuming you are too?” He poked playfully at the bulky vest she wore. 

She nodded, but her face grew serious again. “How many were there?” She started down the hallway. 

“Four, at most.” He would tell her the truth when she didn’t have a gun in her hand and she wasn’t searching for men to kill. “Leon Metzger, he’s the one in charge.” 

“I’ve taken down three. So that leaves Mr. Metzger. He wouldn’t charge at the woman with a gun. So where is he hiding?” 

Metzger didn’t give them the chance to wonder. He appeared down the hall as if on cue, turning and confidently leaning against the wall. “There she is, the famed Black Viper herself. You really are as fearsome as they say, aren’t you? Honestly, I didn’t-” 

Another gunshot, then another, and another. Metzger crumpled to the floor like a thrown ragdoll. Ale heard his wife sigh heavily, from relief he was sure. She turned to face him, taking him into a strong embrace. The velcro of her vest scratched at his face, but he didn’t care. He was safe. She was a criminal, she drew attention and danger, but so long as she was there, he knew he was safe. 

She pulled back, tucking the gun against her back in the waistband of her pants. “Are you sure you’re alright?” She moved her hands along his arms and chest, as if checking him over. 

“I’m okay, really.” He held a hand to his stomach. “I’m kind of hungry, though. Starving, actually.” 

She laughed, wrapping an arm around him and leading him towards the exit. She paid the lifeless bodies no mind as they walked passed, and Ale did the same. “We still have enough time to get to our dinner reservations!” She said cheerfully as he pulled open the door for her. 

“Actually, I’m really craving pasta. The dried pasta we used to get, with the jarred sauce from the dollar store.” 

She gave him a questioning look, but only for a moment. “Yeah…yeah that sounds perfect.”