Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
My sister-in-law Elise once fell in love with her bodyguard, before she married my brother. I cannot even imagine. It would be like kissing one of my brothers. Ew.
The second I catch him looking away, I duck behind a velvet curtain meant to give privacy for palm readings.
The scent of incense is nearly cloying behind the curtain, and I swear it’s ten degrees hotter in here than in the shop. Maybe they think air conditioning interferes with an accurate reading or something. Considering the fact that it’s July in New England, it is not exactly super comfy.
I sit on one of the two fabric-covered stools in here and flap my hands at my armpits so I don’t sweat through my thin white peasant top. Should’ve worn the tank top.
A row of unlit but well-used candles sits on a tiny table between the two stools. Tacked in the center of the table is a bright picture of a full moon, and on the wall right near the entrance there’s a poster of an open palm, drawn like a map. I know the image well. I’ve studied palmistry for years.
A horizontal line at the top, near the base of the fingers. Heart line. Right below it, curving more downward. Head line. The vertical line through the center of the palm. Fate line. And my favorite, the curved line that traces the muscle below the thumb. Life line.
I hear the jingle of the shop door opening, and the general buzz of conversation in the front come to a halt. I hold my breath. I’ve been born and raised in the Rossi family, and I know all too well the signs that someone either important or dangerous has entered a room.
“Can I help you?” someone asks, their tone guarded and concerned.
“Blonde woman.” The voice is curt and deep, husky and unnerving as if the speaker hasn’t had the need to speak in a very long while but when he does, he speaks as little as necessary. “Small. Blue eyes. Pink dress. She’s hiding in here. You seen her?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, I haven’t.”
Hiding in here? She was just wandering around shopping like a normal person a minute ago.
I listen for more people entering the store. I tuck my feet further up on the stool and hold my breath. I close my eyes so I can concentrate.
The voice continues. “Amadeo. Fancy meeting you here.” Someone knows my bodyguard.
This is not good.
This is not good.
Amadeo must be frantic looking for me. I can’t help but feel a little twinge of smugness at that. Good. Let him sweat it. Serves him right, like he’s the smothering boss of me.
Who would enter the store who knows Amadeo?
I look around the small enclosure frantically, as if there’s some magical way to transport to safety, but I don’t see a way out. This is only a small, cramped hole of a place where people come to have secrets revealed and the fog of the future lifted. It isn’t meant to be a hiding place.
As footsteps draw nearer, something catches my eye. In my haste, I’ve pushed aside a worn rug that’s likely meant to cover the center of the floor. And right beneath the curve of the little throw rug, I glimpse the golden edge of a handle that almost looks like a doorknob.
A handle?
Why is there a handle in the floor?
My mama tells stories of how when I was a child, I would hide in the large family room of our home aptly dubbed The Castle, for a glimpse of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy. I knew I was supposed to be in bed. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be downstairs after bedtime, and that I risked punishment. My father punished us all harshly, and often without much provocation, but I learned to grin and bear it like the rest of my siblings.
They say curiosity killed the cat. Me? I’d rather be dead and know who’s behind the damn curtain already.
I was never afraid of getting caught. I was afraid of being conned.
I hear the jingle of beaded curtains being moved, and the clang of glass jars filled with candles being pushed aside.
“Sir, you can’t—” She comes to an abrupt halt. I wonder why. As a woman born and raised in the mafia, I can hazard a guess.
Whoever “sir” is has just proven he can.
I have no time to waste. That little golden handle might be my ticket out of here. I imagine it’s an exit to a hiding place, or a storage compartment. I have to move quickly.
My heart beats frantically as I reach for the handle. I lift it. I stifle a little squeal of delight when the handle quickly gives way and the entire panel rises on a hinge. It is a door.