"Look at me y'all. I went from riches to rags! Just look at me. Just fucking look at me!" Petting his legs and feeling the stubble beginning to grow. "I'm gonna need a wax. I'm startin' to sprout!" Sammy declares miserably to the dirty walls in the cavelike dungeon.

Reaching for the tin, beat up cup by the cell door, he washed up the best he could near the sorry excuse for a sink and a rusty faucet that scarcely trickled running water.

He couldn't see anything, it was so dark except for the light pouring from a high window and the hall light passed his cell. The smell of dirt and rodents filled his nostrils. He flinched when he caught sight of a black spider bigger than an eyeball skitter across the old bricks.

An involuntary shudder wracks his body.

"This is worse than the time I misplaced my Louis Vuitton clutch at a club once." He says, talking to himself, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth. "What's with you St. James women getting kidnapped? Everybody wants a piece of your fine asses and I'm always stuck in the middle and shit." He mumbles, scratching his stubbly chin. "I wonder if the Hilton's or the Kardashians need a new Bff. Speaking of the Kardashians, Kim is my lawyer. Wait till my girl finds out you have an innocent fellow diva behind bars. I'm innocent Kim! You hear me? Innocent!"

He shouted so hard, his nose wrinkled in disgust as he got a whiff of his bad breath. "Sweet Jesus! My breath smells like shit! I look like shit. . .I feel like shit. . .I smell like shit. What can a diva do to get a bath around here?" He says in a depressed tone.

Sammy huddled into a ball, extending one arm through the bars straining to reach the big burly men stationed as guards. "You gigantic monsters better get me outta here. I know Superman and he's a lethal son of a bîtch! He'll break you to pieces! Rip you limb from limb." He threatened.

His warning fell on deaf ears. The men barely acknowledged him. They only scoff softly and shake their heads.

"Are you mother fückers deaf?!? Once he finds out he'll be coming for yoooooou!"

The lack of food and alcohol was making him delirious.

Sammy lifted the tin cup he discarded on the cold, dirty brick covered floor, and began gliding it across the metal bars and humming one of his favorite Madonna songs, hoping to fill the silence of the cell with uplifting positivity. The clanging sound the tin cup caused was becoming increasingly annoying as Sammy watched the back of the men tense by each passing second.

The shorter one looked like Chucky the crazy, ugly-ass doll with bugging eyes and scarred face except this guy's hair was black. The taller one resembled Frankenstein–enormous figure, tall, and square head.

He couldn't recall if they were the same people that kidnapped them from the taxi that night.

"I said, give me your phones and the all the cash you have." The driver repeats, swaying the gun toward him than in Jasmine's direction.

Without a word, Sammy pulls out a stack of bills and his cellular phone from his jacket pocket and hands them to him. Jasmine gives up the clutch with trembling hands instead of retrieving the items he requested.

"Don't hurt us. We never saw you. Let us go and call it even."

Sammy's attempt of negotiating doesn't have a second to sink in when white light floods the back seats. Jasmine screams and scoots away from the windows to the middle seat, clutching his arm as if her life depended on it. Sammy shields his eyes from the flashing lights beaming through the windows on either side of them.

A banging on the windows has them both gripping each other desperately. "What's going on?!?" Jasmine shouted.

A pulsing sound vibrated the entire car.

"We're gonna die!" Sammy wails.

They huddled together, desperate to find comfort in each other as fear clawed their chests. In the next instant, the back doors open. The vibrations were coming from a helicopter's rotary wings. They hear shouting and a threatening wind rises, forcing pressure against them. Jasmine's hair is whipped over their faces and their clothing strains against their bodies.

Suddenly, they were yanked apart. Jasmine kicked wildly and screamed as she struggled to free herself while she's dragged out of the car by two men with black hoods. Sammy quickly makes a grab for her ankle to pull her back in but his attempts were futile. She slips through his fingers. He watches on in horror as something is placed over her mouth and nose. Within a mere few seconds, she passes out in their arms.

"Jasmine!" He screams.

Before he could think, he was also dragged out of the car. He was punched in the stomach, bending forward in pain. A foul smell filled his nostrils and an intense pain spiked through his brain, assaulting his sense. He fell on his knees before collapsing like a bag of potatoes.

The first day he woke with a sluggish moan. His entire body ached, his mouth as dry as a bone and found himself lying on a dirty cot. The sheets were cool and dirty with only one crummy pillow blotted with stains of drool. All he knew was he far from home and Jasmine was nowhere in sight. According to his watch, he'd been stuck in there for the last two days and dressed in the same clothes.

He looked down at his dirtied clothing, shaking his head shamefully. There wasn't a day that went by where he'd be caught dead wearing the same outfit.

"Man. . .What I wouldn't do for a killer bath right about now." Sammy's eyes became distant and fond as a smile curved his mouth picturing himself soaking in a hot bubble bath, martini in hand while reading his favorite magazine. His mouth watered at the thought of a martini. "I never think straight without a martini coursing through my veins. Where's my man Reggie when you need him, y'all? "

No one answered but the echo of his voice against the walls.

"Better yet, where's my baby girl, Jazzy?" He asks himself. Off and on he would remember her and other times he totally forgot about her. "Anybody seen a tall, skinny ass, pretty bitch that was with me when you dogs fetched me?"

The guards continued to ignore him.

"Ahhh, fück it." He waved dismissively. "St. James women always make it out alive standing on their long legs and high stilettos, anyway. Y'all cursed. This is the last time I'm helping a St. James out of a pickle! I'm the little bitch that's always in the wrong place at the wrong-ass time." Sammy shrugged, dismissing her from his thoughts.

He could barely keep talking, no less care. He was in no position to do anything about finding her even if he could.

One of the guards moved and approached the cell. Sammy watched as a plate of food was passed to him through the bars. He stared at it, unable to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. He hadn't been given anything to eat all day yesterday but water.

"Goodness gracious, you buffoons finally figured out I'm human and in need of food. Don't I feel special." He says sarcastically.

Frankenstein grunts and shakes his head in admonishment, muttering something unpleasant from the sound of it beneath his breath and turned away to resume guarding the cell with Chucky. Sammy makes his way to the tray, using the wall as support. Creeping away from the wall, he looked right then left cautiously fearing a spider might come out and attack him. He grabbed hold of the tray and made his way back to the bed.

It suddenly occurred to him, they might have poisoned his food. But the psychologist side of him was the voice of reason. If they wanted him dead, they would have shot him with the guns strapped to their waists. They wouldn't have kept him alive, curled up in a corner, wondering if this is where they were going to leave him until he died. And they certainly wouldn't have offered to feed him if they wanted him dead.

Sammy picks up the fork, poking the blood red pasta around as if looking for something hideous hiding in it. A piece of garlic bread was laid nicely in a smaller plate. He wanted to refuse the food. Not a big fan of carbs, the rumbling of his stomach didn't care what his taste buds craved. He was starving. If he ever got the chance of escaping, it was essential to have some kind of nutrients. Stabbing the fork with pasta, he ignored the taste of tomato sauce fighting the urge to vomit.

He quickly chewed and swallowed.

The pasta was cold, but tolerable.

"This is going to kill my waistline." He mutters, biting into the garlic bread.

His stomach was still rumbling after he finished, but he felt a little better. When he rose again, he didn't almost fall over. He dropped the tray by the door again, not caring if the plates broke. Tilting his head to the side, he turned around to the sounds of squealing coming from under the sorry excuse of a bed he'd been sleeping in. Getting down on hands and knees, his mouth drops open at the sight of two large rats.

Sammy shudders, trying to keep his food down. "I can't believe it. Just when I thought I'd seen it all . . .look at this papa rat fücking this mama rat, y'all!"

He quickly stands, his face wedged between the iron bars. "Get me outta here! They're going to have offspring and eat me alive while I sleep! Heeeeeelp meeeeeee!"

The guards give him a dirty look, ignore him and resume playing cards on a rusty table outside his cell.

"You bastards!" Sammy huffs in anger and turns, darting his gaze over the square cell in hopes of finding something to interrupt the rats from continuing their sexual session. The tin cup he used earlier lay on the floor. He reaches for it and tiptoes to the cot. Hand raised behind him as if he were ready to roll a bowling ball, and with all the strength he could muster, he lets go of the cup watching it roll.

It hits the target!

The rats begin squealing in panic and fear. Sammy watches on with mild satisfaction as their brief interlude is interrupted and they scatter in different directions in the holes lining the walls and disappear.

"You think karma is a bitch? That's what happens when you piss off the one and only, Dr. Sammy Princeton!"

Waiting for at least half an hour to make sure the rats didn't come back to resume their rendezvous, Sammy eventually went back to the dirty cot and laid down, draping an arm over his eyes. He fell fast asleep and dreamt of a pleasurable, warm, bubble bath and one of the best martini's he'd ever drank. He was being fed grapes from a bare chested, muscular man with blond hair while another was fanning him from the other side.

He hadn't realized he had finally dozed off until a loud clanging noise roused him instantly making him spring from the cot like an electrocuted cat. The dream completely vanished from his mind, as he watched one of the guards shuffled towards the cell door. His gaze darted everywhere, hoping they were finally letting him go, grasping the iron bars. Unhooking a ring of the keys from his belt, a guard stopped several feet from Sammy's cell.

"Back away from the door." He orders sternly, with a heavy accent.

Sammy quickly let's go of the bars as if they shocked him, loses his balance and lands hard on his bottom.

The rusted bars of his cell moan as the guard unbolted the cell. Sammy is pulled to his feet and yanked from his cage. Their huge arms seize him, flanking his sides, and begin walking down the stone hallway.

"Where are you taking me?" He demanded, not bothering to hide his fear. "Why was I taken? Look, I've done nothing to no one. Ever. I'm a diva that appreciates make-up, fine clothing and designer bags. That ain't a crime!" He continued to babble in hopes they'd let him go. "I'm sorry for dissing you back there for the last two days. Just let me go and I'll guarantee my lips are sealed." Sammy made a show of pinching his index and thumb together and drawing a line over his lips. "I won't even tell the devil himself!"

"Shut up!" Frankenstein says, shoving him ahead, down the stone corridor.

Sammy almost tripped.

With a grunt, he had no choice but to obey. His beady eyes scanned his surroundings and his ears perked listening, alert, ready to find something to help find a clue to escape.

The sounds of their brisk, snapping strides echoed down the massive end of the long corridor. Chucky and Frankenstein stood aside, opened a door they reached, and shoved Sammy into a dim stuffy room. He trips again, landing on his knees with a curse leaving his lips. The guards shut the door and leave him alone.

Rising slowly, his gaze swept the room.

It appeared to be an interrogation room, lined with more men, all heavily armed with guns and menacing expressions. Sammy gulped. There was more of them posted every ten feet around the perimeter.

"What in the name of Chanel is this place? You people look like a bunch of mafia killers!" He mutters to himself.

There were high windows and a large wood lit fireplace. Against the longer wall ahead was a throne like chair made of red velvet and rough woodwork, raised on a stone dais. The hairs on Sammy's nape bristled and the little hairs growing on his body stand on end, goosebumps erupting all over his skin.

On the chair sat an unmoving figure of a man.

Was this the guy responsible for kidnapping him?

A large window fell behind the man so only his immense silhouette was visible in the shrouded darkness of the room. Elbows on the chair's arms, fingers steepled in thought before his face–the man didn't have to say a word. The aura of authority showed in the expanse planes of his shoulders and hard lined jaw.

Fear rushed through Sammy's veins.

The man's gaze felt like a heavy weight and his stillness was positively chilling. Although his features were obstructed by shadows, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man was dangerous, silently waiting, keenly watching him like a sleek Panther ready to pounce.

Sammy squinted his eyes trying to get a clearer view. He could only make out his dark clothing, likely black. The sleeves of the expensive looking shirt he wore were rolled back slightly beneath his elbows hinting at sculptured arms. His pants were made of black leather, appearing both comfortable and soft; his glossy boots shone brightly even in the shadows, as if mocking Sammy, showing him even shoes were cleaner than he was.

After realizing his jaw had dropped during the full two minutes he was checking out the guy before him, Sammy snapped his mouth shut. Not one single armed man breathed. The acute silence was terrifying.

No way in hell am I going to die in here! I have too much to live for!

Sammy thought of the new yellow Chanel handbag he recently purchased to add to his collection–another graduation present to himself. He'd die if he didn't get a chance to wear it.

With an impatient gesture caused by the dark man, one of the guards stepped forward, a unspoken command orders to search him. Sammy was pulled to his feet by an olive skinned, tattooed guard in combat pants, boots and bullet proof vest and began briskly patting down his body.

The males hands were aggressive and rough, painful even, and touching him in indecent areas of his body. Sammy was having none of it, feeling a bitch fit overcome him. He didn't care if the man had a machine gun strapped over his back.

"Get your sleazy hands off of me, bitch!" He screeched. "I ain't no hoe!"

Reflexively, with a burst of energy, Sammy swung both arms and began punching the man not minding where his fists landed. Whirling, he jabbed the stunned guard one last time in the face, then spun and leaped like a cheetah to catch another one rushing at him and getting him in the chest with a well-aimed kick. Sammy was breathing hard, perspiration accumulating at his forehead.

He watched re-runs of the Rocky movie enough times to know how to throw punches.

His blood was pumping full of adrenalin. Sammy paced, moving in and out of range as quickly as possible, trying to create momentum with his fancy footwork. His combination of technique was made on a whim, but he knew enough about boxing where footwork is key to generating power when striking an opponent.

A third stepped near, and instinctively, his knee came up hard between the man's thighs, striking his balls.

"Yes bitches!" Pumping his fist in the air "A hit to the family jewels gets em' every time!"

The soldier stiffens and drops in a heap to the floor.

The others moved in on him, closing the circle. Tensed with anticipation, Sammy whirled and all but hissed at them like a little cat, backing them off. But in a blink of an eye, a fourth one came around, unseen, and pointed a gun against the side of his temple.

Sammy froze and stood stock-still, chest heaving, hands in the air.

"What should we do with him, your Highness?" The guard pointing the gun asks.

Sammy braced himself before turning to face his fate.

Then, from high on the throne rolled a low laugh pierced by slow applause. "Well done, Dr. Kingston. Well done."

What the fuck?

The man on the throne shifted and a slice of light shone in his eyes. Sammy stood mesmerized. Those eyes pinned him to the spot. The mysterious man emerged from the gloom of the shadows and straightened to his full height. He was large, like a mighty, fallen angel sauntering towards him. The dim lighting contoured his angular face with shadow.

Sammy gazed at him, transfixed, as he slowly approached. Moving casually, and with deceptive laziness, he crosses the room, advancing relentlessly as Sammy walked backwards until he found himself flattened back against the doorframe. He couldn't bare staring at him any longer.

For the first time in his life, Sammy was flustered, his shallow breaths resonating through the quiet room.

The tension notched up a whole new level. Towering over him, mere inches away, his sheer size and aura of physical strength overwhelmed him. Avoiding the tugging stare of the dark evil eyes was impossible. Sammy turned his sharp, wary gaze and found those eyes now studied him with amused disdain.

Eyes he's seen before.

"Russo?" Sammy practically breathed his name.

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