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)
“For my father, they're one and the same. Family is business. Business is family. He never makes a choice without weighing what it means for the Russos. For himself, in particular.”
“How old were you when he brought you in?”
His smile is bitter. “There's never a time I wasn't in, as you put it. From the beginning, I was the heir apparent, and he believed in on-the-job training. Other kids were allowed to go out and play, to make friends.” He snarls before draining what's left in his glass. “Me? I lived with the daily reminder that there's no such thing as friendship. In the end, everyone behaves in their own best interest. Might as well get what you can from them while you can.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Why? You didn't do it.”
“No, but I'm sorry that happened. Being brought up that way must have been miserable. You never knew if you could trust anybody.”
“Simple. I don't. That leaves me with a lot less to wonder about.”
“But that can't be easy, either. You're always looking over your shoulder or judging everybody through the most cynical lens possible.”
“It's kept me alive.” I know he's trying to sound tough and unaffected, but there's pain in his voice. So much that it touches me deeply and reminds me that he's just a wounded, broken person who never had a chance. He talks about his black soul, his lack of conscience? No wonder. Anybody would have a conscience beaten out of them over time with a father like the one he's describing.
“But what kind of life is that? I'm so sorry.”
He looks at me from beneath lowered brows. “Sorry for me? I'm not the person you should feel sorry for.” He leans forward, plopping the glass on the coffee table before picking up his phone again. He's pulling away from me. We were so close to sharing something real, too.
“Please come and talk to me,” I beg.
“We've done enough talking,” he barks before storming off to the bedroom, where he closes the door and separates us once again. Within moments, he’s back on the phone, rattling off instructions in Italian so I can't understand.
Why not? It isn't like I can understand anything else about him, anyway.
16
CHRISTIAN
I slept on the couch last night. For the first time since we’ve returned to Italy, I’ve slept apart from her. Partly because I wanted to be near the door in case anything happened. But mainly because of how I reacted last night. After everything she’s been through, she didn’t deserve for me to flip out on her. And while apologizing isn’t a thing I’ve done, I feel I owe her that.
She nearly lost her life, and I had a hand in every horrible thing that happened before that. Now, after nearly losing her, I don’t like the way that feels. Almost as if the emotional dam has broken, and all of a sudden, I’m in tune with my feelings—remorse, regret, shame. Sensitivity is probably a better word for it, but that has no place in our world.
Shaking away my thoughts, I swing my legs over the side of the insanely comfortable sofa. I push my fist into the cushion, grunting as I lift myself. It’s quiet, and when I glance to my right out the large window, it’s barely sunrise. The sun slowly peeks over the horizon, painting the sky in various shades of orange and purple.
I walk across the large living space toward the bedroom. The suite is huge and should be for the amount of money it cost me. Not that money matters, because it doesn’t, but there is no way I’m paying for anything less than what we deserve. The door is cracked, but I can’t see anything through the slit. When I push it open, my heart jumps from my chest, and my ears start to flood with nervous pressure.
I storm in, shoving the door open farther as if that would make a difference. Then I pat the empty bed, a subconscious action to help my brain accept the reality in front of me. The bathroom adjacent to the room is vacant, and she’s nowhere in the front of the suite.
She’s gone—Siân is gone.
Panic rises, my palms sweat, and suddenly, I can’t fucking breathe. When I race to the bar area where we set the keys, and I notice one is missing, I relax a little, but that doesn’t exactly mean anything.
My nails scrape across the cold granite as I snatch up the remaining key card and my phone and storm out of the room without shoes. The hallway is clear, only the sound of a child crying in the distance, and as I stalk past doors, I can make out bits and pieces of conversations.
None of that matters, though. But, I keep my ears open just to be sure I can hear her, a laugh, a cough—a scream. Is this it? Has she finally found her out and decided to take it? To run from me despite me saving her, despite being wanted by an unknown assassin?