Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“I’m taking you to see Cynthia.”
Amazing. Just like that, trying to run away is the furthest thing from my mind. “Seriously? Right now?”
“Or a few minutes from now, if you insist on asking questions.” Again, he’s treating me like a child. I don’t care right now. I only want to see Cynthia again. To think, this is where he took her. So far from me.
He leads me out to a Town Car and opens the passenger door rather than allowing the driver to do it for me. Such a gentleman. If he’s waiting for a thanks, he can keep waiting. I slide into the back seat without a word. He pauses for just a moment before closing the door harder than needed. I wonder how many times he’s been denied what he wants. I’m sure this is new for him.
At least he doesn’t seem interested in having a conversation about our happy future and how glad I’ll be once I give him what he wants: my hand in marriage. Even now, away from his father and the rest of the household, the thought makes me want to gag. Instead of bugging me, he makes a phone call, angling his body slightly away from me as if to close me out while he conducts business.
“Ciao. Che cosa hai sentito? Sì, sono tornato in campagna.” He barely speaks loud enough to be heard, though thanks to the fact that he’s speaking in Italian, I can only make out bits and pieces anyway. He’s telling somebody he’s back in the country and asking what they’ve heard. Heard about what, I wonder.
After that, most of it comes too fast for me to make sense. I wish I wasn’t so rusty, but then Cynthia and I stuck to strict English once we made it to the States. We couldn’t give away our origins. It wasn’t easy at first, but I lost my Italian over time while my English got stronger.
Now I wish I knew more so there’d be less chance of him hiding things from me. Maybe it’ll get better with time. Oh, no, am I already thinking about this in the long term? Have I already given up hope of getting away?
Maybe Cynthia can give me some ideas on how to escape. Wait, who am I kidding? I doubt we’ll be able to spend any time alone. I can hope. I have to hope.
We’re on the road for maybe ten minutes, and the driver turns into a thickly wooded area. Of course, he’d keep her somewhere remote. Cynthia’s too much of a badass not to get away if there was any chance of escaping without getting herself killed somehow. I’m sure she’s weighed the pros and cons of trekking through unknown woods on foot.
I need to think of her this way. I don’t want to believe Christian hurt her permanently. He said she’s fine, but I suspect our definitions of that word are different.
“Sì, facciamo in modo che ciò accada. Come ora. Nessuna scusa. Fammi sapere quando è finito.” Something about making things happen. No excuses. Let him know when it’s finished. What’s he talking about? Do I even want to know? What if it has to do with me? My anxiety rises with each thought.
He ends the call, sliding the phone into his jacket pocket. He’s gritting his teeth. Clearly, something made him angry. “What was that all about?” I venture. “You seem upset.”
“Nothing you need to worry about.” He stares out the window, looking away from me.
“No offense, but you’ve sort of pulled me into your life. What bothers you worries me, especially if I might get caught in the crossfire.”
He snorts, looking my way from the corner of his eye. “It was business. It has nothing to do with you.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind of business that gets people’s brains blown out when they fuck up.” He turns my way, his face blank. Daring me to react. Message received.
I stare at him for a long moment. It’s stupid how gorgeous he is and how attracted to his face and kindness I am. I was a lamb being led straight to the slaughterhouse, and I don’t know why it took me so long to see. I turn away from him in favor of looking at the scenery without really seeing any of it. How did I ever think he was sweet and kind? I could never have imagined this version of him back then. Either that or I didn’t want to see it.
Turning my attention back to him, I murmur. “You know who you sound like when you talk like that?” I don’t wait for him to respond. “Your father. You sound mean. You weren’t like that in Florida.”
“That was then. This is now.” He even sighs like he’s bored.
“But you expect me to be happy with you now when you act like him? If you hate him so much, why do you want to be like him?”