Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
It’s freezing when I get out in front of his office building. The wind that blows from the mountain cuts through my jeans and lightweight parka jacket. My nose and fingers feel frozen. I should’ve taken a scarf and gloves. In my rush to get here, I didn’t even pack a beanie.
Grabbing the paper bag with the food, I walk with a brisk pace to the door. The guard that usually mans the entrance is absent. I don’t visit Dad at the office often—very seldom, actually—but he’s a stickler for security. He has guards on duty twenty-four-seven. Maybe he decided it’s safe enough in George or that the alarm is adequate protection.
I climb the three steps to the double French doors. Edwards Imports and Exports is situated in a historical building with a stone façade, arched windows with red metal frames, and a black iron rooster on the chimney. The building was used as the province trade headquarters until a century ago. After falling into ruin, my dad bought and restored it. The building stands almost right on the street, flanked by two giant oak trees. A large green lawn and a parking lot with an ornate iron fence stretch out at the back. The gate is locked on weekends, which is why I parked in the street.
The light on the intercom panel next to the doors is dead. I push the call button to test it, but the bell doesn’t ring. The power isn’t down, because a light burns in the reception area. Weird. I feel the door handle. The door swings inward soundlessly.
It’s not like Dad not to lock the doors. Then again, he’s been more forgetful of late. Mom says he sometimes forgets to set the house alarm before going to bed. He’s not getting younger, but he’s not old enough to be that negligent yet.
“Dad?” I call, taking the stairs to the upper level two by two.
His office spreads over half of the first floor. The spacious room boasts blackwood floors, a corner chimney, a crystal chandelier, and a genuine nineteenth century pressed ceiling. The wide windows frame the Outeniqua Mountains. Together with a skylight, they let in plenty of light. The decoration is a mashup of steampunk and factory-loft styles. The whole building is a work of art.
“Dad?” I say again, quickening my steps down the hallway.
Overhead lights with industrial trumpet shades throw circles on the teak floor. The bulbs reflect in the stained-glass wall that gives a view of the inner courtyard below.
“Surprise,” I say, sticking my head around the doorframe. “I brought—”
The scene that greets me cuts the rest of my sentence short. The food drops from my hand. The bottom of the bag breaks. Fries and packets of condiments scatter around my feet. Those objects I can process. Not the blood and gray matter on the floor. Not my dad lying in that puddle. Not Santino Russo towering over him. And not Angelo crouched next to my dad, wearing black leather gloves and holding a gun in his hand.
Chapter
Four
Angelo
* * *
Sabella stands in the door with a scream trapped in her throat. She doesn’t give sound to it, but it’s there. It’s in her eyes. It’s in the way horror transforms her features. But she’s frozen. She wants to run. Cry for help. Deny what’s in front of her. She can’t. Her body and brain are locked by a terrifying spell of shock.
I know.
I’ve been there.
She’s a fragile picture of a delicate object that’s been violently broken. A beautiful vase. Shattered. Shards of paper-thin glass. And even when she picks up the pieces, she’ll never be the same.
I know.
Food lies around her feet, wasted. That’s why she’s here when she wasn’t supposed to be. She wanted to surprise her father. She brought him lunch. Or dinner. It’s too late for lunch and too early for supper. Too late to unsee what she’s witnessed.
There’s no choice. I have to finish the job. Even if she screams, no one will hear her. The office buildings around us are closed for the weekend.
Tearing my attention away from her, I place the gun in Edwards’s hand and fold his lifeless fingers around the shaft.
My father looks down at the body with contempt as I straighten. He adjusts his jacket, steps over the blood, and walks to the door.
“Finish her,” he says, holding her gaze as he shoves past her.
Finish her.
Because she’s a witness.
Because we don’t need her any longer.
But I need her. God knows, I hate her for it, but I do. I don’t even know when it became so imperative that her father kept his promise. Maybe when I first saw her. Maybe before, when she was nothing but a distant knowledge and a vague concept of my future. Maybe when I kissed her. Definitely when I fucked her. Undeniably when I branded her with my seed in her pussy and my mark on her skin.