Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Ah. Scary.” She only purses her lips and doesn't respond to me.
So I found out a couple of things. Her dad was unfaithful—shocker. It's almost a given in these circles.
She has no sisters, was the only Montavio sister, so lucky her, likely received the weight of responsibility afforded a mafia woman. She has no respect for her mother, nothing short of hatred for her father, and probably feels the same way about her brothers. That's one thing that's different about the Rossi girls and their brothers. While they were all joined by a commonality in childhood, and the Rossi brothers are protective of their sisters, it appears the Montavio brothers cared more about what their father thought than their sister. But I also wonder how much time they actually spent together if she spent a good portion of her childhood in boarding school. Do they even know each other?
All the Montavio brothers—Sergio, Timeo, and Ricco—have been faithful to us. I know them to be hard-working and loyal, but neither of those things matter to her. They took after their father's tradition of treating her with disrespect and control. She might never forgive that. This is all important information for me to know going forward.
Vivia doesn't appear to be shallow, but she's been terribly sheltered from the basics of day-to-day life.
She makes a little squeaky sound as she slaps at her arms. Mosquitoes fly around us.
"Go inside. Sit at the table where I can see you, and keep your hands folded in front of you."
The screen door slams behind her, and she does exactly what I say—none too soon because the fluttering of wings warns me there are bats nearby, and something tells me Vivia would lose her shit. Not that I don't like the idea of her running into my arms for protection…
Stay focused.
We spend the next ten minutes in silence. She sits obediently at the table with her hands folded in front of her, and I build a fire inside the fireplace. There's a definite satisfaction in watching the flames leap to life, in the earthy smell of burning wood, the smoke. I sit on my haunches and watch the flames lick around the kindling like eager fireflies, igniting the dried pieces of wood as I build a furnace. Within minutes, I've stacked the firewood to maximize the length of time it will burn. It's a small fire, one that will warm us and help us cook our food, but will burn quicker than one might think, especially seasoned, dry wood like this. I'll either have to feed the fire all night long, or make the most of it while it's lit.
"Where did you learn to do that?" she asks curiously. Her hands are still folded in front of her, but she's been watching me the entire time. "There's definitely like a method to your madness. You don't just toss one in there and light it. I watched. You took the lighter, smaller things first to get the fire going, then you stacked it all.”
"I grew up on the streets. We did this for fun." I don't tell her that my best friend was arrested for arson when I was ten years old, and that crime followed him for the rest of his life. “We were expert at building fires, and it served me well when I was in the military."
"Why do you do it like that?"
"If you light damp wood, or light too big a log at first, the flame will smolder out. It's a rookie mistake, not building a small fire first. If you build a fire just right, and stack dense, long-burning wood, it will burn for hours. If you don't, it will either burn out quickly, or smolder into nothing."
As I talk, I wonder about stoking her flames. A part of me can't help but wonder if I'm kindling a fire with her or if the flames will smolder and collapse into smoke.
I shouldn't let this bother me. I don't know why I care.
She sits at the table thoughtfully, then changes the subject.
"Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?"
"Do you know how to cook?"
She shakes her head, her eyes bright. "No. Not at all. But it doesn't mean I can't… like, husk corn or… peel a potato or something."
"We’ll keep it simple tonight. There's some fresh food, a bagged salad, a package of hot dogs. We’ll eat up the perishables first, because I don't know how long we’ll be here, and it makes sense to do that."
“Do we have, like… plates or something?"
"We might, but I don't want you getting out of that seat, and I want your hands where I can see them at all times."
She has the nerve to look hurt. She almost winces. "What do you think I'm going to do? Stab you with a potato peeler? You’re twice my size, and I told you I barely know how to cook. You know I know absolutely nothing about self-defense? You were in the military. You're a Rossi man. You're the one that has the advantage here."