Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I shatter. I burst into flames. Stars blind my vision and I gasp and moan, bliss flooding me in a sudden vicious torrent.
He mutters into the phone. “Be there in ten. I’m bringing the girl with me.”
I open my eyes and see an unfamiliar shade. I blink, but don’t move. After what I’ve been through in the past few months, I’m used to waking in a place I don’t remember right away. I’ve learned it’s better to come to your senses while lying totally still.
I feel around me on instinct to see if I’m alone in the bed, and find my wrists are not secured as they have been. I can move my arms freely. I pat behind me and all around me. I’m alone in a large, cavernous bed, one of the biggest I’ve ever seen, and definitely the biggest I’ve ever slept in.
Definitely alone.
A wave of grief hits me so hard I close my eyes, immediate tears blurring my vision. My nose stings and my throat burns. There was a time not that long ago when I’d feel Piero’s warm, comforting body beside me. I bury my face in my pillow and stifle my cries. I don’t know where I am, and don’t yet remember how I got here, but I know I don’t have the luxury of dwelling in grief right now.
And then I remember.
Tavi brought me here last night. Tavi, my enemy.
My future husband.
The tears start afresh.
I sit up, oblivious to the time or where exactly I am, but when I open the shade, I see Tuscany’s singular landscape giving way to rolling hills that lead to mountaintops, nature’s border between Tuscany and the southern regions of Italy. Tuscany any time of year is beautiful. In April, it’s simply breathtaking.
I go to lift the window, because I long to fill my lungs with the warm, fresh air of an early Tuscan spring, but find it locked. I frown and flick the lock, as if something so simple would make a difference. Of course I’m locked in here. That I can walk freely is a miracle in and of itself.
Still, I can see for miles outside this window, a luxury I haven’t had in months.
From here, I can see a vineyard, though I don’t know which one. There are as many vineyards as there are gardens here in my homeland, the place my heart longs to live. Here in Tuscany, I learned to read with the help of tutors. Here, my father had a lover who kept him occupied and left me mostly to my own devices, unlike when we went home to America. In America, I was like a pesky scab he liked to pick until it bled.
Tuscany, though… here, I breathe more freely. There’s a relaxed sort of measure to life here, more like an ambling stroll than the American trot and sprint. Known for its stunning panorama of landscapes, rich history, and the arts, most consider Tuscany the home of the Italian Renaissance. One of my favorite things to do, especially in the warmer months of April before the sweltering heat of summer, is to stroll the city streets and shop.
It’s very easy to spend money in Tuscany. I’ll enjoy spending Tavi’s.
With my luck, he probably won’t even care.
I pause in my musings when I hear footsteps outside my door. For a moment, my return home helped me forget my grief, but now I remember who I am and why I’m here.
I’m under the watchful eye of my enemy. I can’t let myself forget that.
There’s a preliminary knock at the door only as a matter of formality, for a moment later, it swings open. My future husband fills the whole doorway, the light behind him casting him in a dark silhouette. I turn away. I don’t want to see his beautiful face right now. Not when the memory of Piero still burns in my mind like the fading brilliance of a sunset.
“Buongiorno, Elise,” Tavi says as he enters my room.
I respond while looking out at the countryside. “Buongiorno.” My voice is a little husky from sleep. We arrived late last night or early this morning, and it will take a few days for me to adjust to the time difference, if we’re even here that long. He didn’t tell me why we were coming. I didn’t ask, because I don’t much care.
“Look at me when you speak to me, please,” he says in a deceptively calm voice. The effects of the punishment he administered still linger, and my skin tingles at the memory of his hand on my throat when he threatened me. I’m under no delusion about who he is or what he’s capable of.
Piero lies dead because of men just like him.
Still, I obey. I’ll pick my battles.
I turn back to him and stare at him, unblinking. “I said good morning.”