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)
Instead, I don't say a word. It isn't that he's acting particularly aggressive or angry. That, I have experience with. It's his calm that has my nerves on edge all over again. He's absolutely even, steady. He doesn't even drive very fast, steering with one hand while clutching his gun with the other. It rests in his lap, and I have to wonder what he thinks he's going to do with it. Some questions are best left unasked.
The energy in the car is eerie. The only reason I can sit here and silently deal with it is because I know it's not directed at me. And unlike the situation back at the old factory, I don't feel compelled to beg for Samuele's life. I'd be more inclined to give him the go-ahead to do whatever he needs to do.
Still, it's chilling. He's completely checked out. I would have expected him to fuss over me a little bit, but he hardly looks my way. He's that focused on whatever it is he's about to do. Deep in the back of my mind, I have to ask myself what he's capable of in this mood. Has he snapped? Once a person snaps, there's no telling what they're capable of. That's usually when people end up dying in mass murders. Wild, terrible things like that.
I feel nothing but relief when we reach the mansion—strange, considering how I normally feel about the place. Countless cars are still parked around the property, so the party hasn't ended. Not that there would be any partying now. Not after I'm sure Christian tore out of there, determined to get to me. I doubt they're here to comfort Samuele, either. They only want to see how this plays out.
And by all appearances, they're happy to see me when Christian leads me from the car. I don't have it in me to get into a conversation, and I'm sure one look at the dried blood on my face is enough to keep most of them away from me.
Except for Cynthia. “My God.” She runs to me the second I’m inside. Her arms are out, hands reaching for me. It only makes sense to lean into her embrace. “I thought I lost you.”
“It's not as bad as it looks,” I murmur before flinching back when she raises her hand to my head. “But maybe let's not touch it, you know?”
Christian march past us, past everyone. He doesn't say a word. He acknowledges none of the questions, none of the attempts to shake his hand as if to congratulate him on a job well done. The house might as well be empty for all he notices. I can only watch along with everyone else as he storms up the stairs, presumably in search of his father. I know that's exactly who I would want to talk to before anyone else.
“My God!”
“What is this? A joke?”
“Who the hell—?”
The confusion now blooming near the entrance pulls my attention from the back of Christian’s head. Even Cynthia gasps, clutching my arm. “Who is that? It can't be!”
But it is. And now that Enzo has strolled into the house like he belongs here, everybody else knows it, too.
26
CHRISTIAN
Nothing else matters. Not the glances or loud gasps coming from those the moment I return with my bride or the shock I hear when they undoubtedly meet my brother, my twin—Enzo.
It’s a hell of a lot to wrap your mind around, that’s for damn sure. But the only thing I care about is answers. He says this was my father’s doing. All of it. And now, I need to hear it from the horse's mouth. Samuele is a ruthless bastard, and none of this should surprise me. It does, and I fucking hate it.
To think, I questioned whether or not I could go through with it and kill him as Siân asked. For her, I would have, and after everything I learned tonight, there isn’t a doubt left in my mind. He’s never going to stop, especially once he learns that I know the truth about everything.
Heat creeps up the nape of my neck, my vision blurs, and before I realize it, I’m living outside myself. Watching down as I angrily search for my father.
“Dov'è?” I snap, my anger now directed at Aldo. Where is he? I snap, my anger directed at Aldo.
He stares at me, uncertainty etched into his features, but he knows better than to deny me. “Nel suo ufficio, signore.” In his office, sir.
I stalk through the house, up the stairs toward my father’s office. Flashes of the night replay in my mind, images of Siân bonded and strapped to that chair, blood staining her beautiful face. My blood boils at the memory, and I fist my hands at my side.
Finally, I reach the entryway of his office. The door is a jar, and behind the oversized desk is the man who raised me. With a cigar in his hand, and a drink sitting next to the stack of papers he’s reading, he goes on, completely unaware that his plan failed.