Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Before Doris has a chance to return and question me, I escape to the entrance and snatch my mom’s car key from the table where it lies next to her handbag. I’m too upset to think about taking her car registration papers or my license. I walk out of the door and push through the gate. The Audi is an automatic. It’s not difficult to drive. I get in and start the engine, not bothering to check the mirrors or to adjust the seat.
At the bottom of the street, I floor the gas. My eyes burn, but they remain dry. Good. Angelo doesn’t deserve my tears. The line in the middle of the road blurs and doubles. I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm, trying to clear my vision. I’m driving like a maniac, way too fast, and it’s only sheer luck that I don’t get pulled over by a traffic cop before I reach the golf estate.
I park in front of the main entrance of the hotel and stalk inside, ignoring the valet who stares after me. At the counter, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My mascara is smeared in dark circles around my eyes and my expression looks wild. The people in the reception area steal glances at me. They’re dressed in fancy golf clothes or formal office attire. My favorite T-shirt with the whale on the back dating from an aquarium visit two years ago stands out like a sore thumb. So does my faded and authentically ripped jeans, but I don’t care.
As I don’t have a bag with me, I shove the car key in my back pocket. Drumming my fingers on the counter, I wait. There’s no one else but me, but the concierge is in no hurry to help me.
Anger makes me brazen. I lean an elbow on the counter and put myself in the concierge’s space. “Mr. Russo’s room number, please.”
The man’s voice is neutral. “We’re not allowed to give out room numbers, ma’am.”
“He’s expecting me,” I say, smiling sweetly, speaking too loudly.
The concierge glances around. They don’t like people to make scenes in upmarket places like these, especially not underdressed and underaged girls who ask for grown men’s room numbers.
I lift my hand, showing him the gold ring on my thumb. “Why don’t you call him and check for yourself?”
Something passes over his face as he takes in the ring, some recognition that gives life to his otherwise cardboard-like countenance.
He doesn’t have to check the guest list. “The penthouse suite.”
Of course. There’s only one penthouse suite.
I slam a hand on the counter, palm-up. “Give me a card.”
His mouth tightens. “I’ll need your name, please.”
“Sabella Edwards.”
He quirks an eyebrow but says nothing. His long, spidery fingers clack over the keyboard as he types. A moment later, he pushes a keycard in a paper envelope toward me.
“Thank you,” I say.
He doesn’t bother with a reply.
I grab the card and cut across the foyer. When I look back over my shoulder, he’s got the phone pressed against his ear, no doubt alerting Angelo that I’m on my way.
There are only two floors, but my legs are too wobbly to navigate the stairs. I stab the button of the elevator to call it down, repeatedly hitting the button until the doors slide open. The man and woman who were also waiting for the elevator step aside, not getting in with me.
I jam the heel of my palm on the top-floor button. The doors close, shutting me in. I turn in a circle like an animal in a cage, willing the numbers to light up more quickly. The soft, generic music that plays through the speakers in the ceiling does nothing to calm me. It only agitates me more.
When the elevator stops, I squeeze through the doors before they’re fully open. There’s no hallway, just a foyer with a burgundy carpet and silver wallpaper embossed with fleur-de-lis's.
The only door on this level opens before I reach it. Angelo stands in the frame, wearing a black shirt, dark pants, and an inscrutable expression.
All the fury I felt since Mattie’s words had ripped into my heart bubbles to the surface. I’m blind with rage as I storm across the floor, plant my palms on his chest, and shove him with all my might.
My effort doesn’t move him an inch. He steps back into the room of his own accord, letting me in.
Raising my arm, I slap him hard across the face. My handprint lies red on his cheek when I pull away. I lift my hand again, but this time, he catches my wrist.
I yank free. “How could you?”
He moves around me and closes the door.
I turn, circling with him, unwilling to give him my back. “How could you do something like that?”