Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
The room is drenched in silence. Emilio struggles from his mother’s arms and crawls on the floor, playing with a pillow. Damon pours another drink and throws it back, and I hug Calvino tightly, holding him as a shudder runs down his spine.
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says, finally looking over. She seems so exhausted, so emptied. “I didn’t mean for anyone but him to die. I loved your mother, Calvino, but I’m not sorry about your father.”
“I’m not sorry about him either,” Calvino says sadly and he pulls me closer. “Thank you for telling me. At least now I know what happened to my parents, even if it wasn’t easy to hear.”
“Can’t say the old man didn’t deserve it,” Damon mumbles.
Diego says nothing, only has another drink and remains back against the countertops.
“What will you do?” I ask, looking up at Calvino.
He closes his eyes and seems to gather himself. Storms rage beneath his skin and I can only imagine his pain. I can only imagine the suffering Charlie went through, and the horrors Riley experienced.
All for this man, this Vincent.
I hate him so much it makes my heart bleed. It makes my throat close.
“We’ll go to the Sandtrap,” Calvino says, opening those beautiful eyes, those eyes I can’t get enough of. He turns them on me like spotlights. “We’ll deal with Vince. We’ll do what we’ve got to do.”
I kiss him. I bite his lip. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
And I kiss him again, because I don’t know how many more times I’ll get to taste his mouth and feel his breath on my skin, and I wonder if there will be a bottom to all this madness.
Chapter 32
Calvino
Damon rolled his vintage Jaguar down the driveway, taking it nice and slow. The interior smelled like leather and shoe polish, and I kept catching glances from Calvino in the rearview mirror: he was nervous, just like we all were. The car was a puffball of anxiety, a thick cotton swab of uncertainty. Outside, the Sandtrap loomed like a gossamer tomb. I put my hand on Charlie’s leg and felt her muscles jostle restlessly and she didn’t turn to look in my direction.
“He’ll be fine,” I say quietly, “Diego’s good with kids.” I have no clue if that’s true, but it feels like the right thing to say.
She only shakes her head and doesn’t answer.
Something feels off. Maybe it’s the armed guards that walk toward us from the garage, each of them holding a long rifle and looking fairly pissed. That’d be on account of Calvino killing two of their coworkers. And the multiple escapes. I’d imagine Vince isn’t happy and is taking his rage out on his employees—typical asshole boss behavior.
“Let me do the talking,” Damon says as he parks. “Right now, I’m the only one with good standing in this damn family.”
“I don’t love that,” Calvino says but doesn’t argue further, again, on account of murdering two guys.
“Stay in here until I motion for you to get out. God, this is so fucked.”
Damon unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out. He keeps his hands spread wide as the guards walk closer, and he barks orders at the young guy, black hair, neck tattoo, that tries to pat him down. “I’m still the fucking underboss, you little rotten pus-filled shit sandwich, so go find my goddamn brother and don’t touch me.” The guard leaps back and runs off to the house.
Charlie shifts her weight and turns to me with big watery eyes. “There’s something I should tell you,” she whispers. She grips my arm hard like she wants to transmit her anxiety through her hands. How simple life would be if we could communicate everything we’re feeling, all the complexities and vagaries and shadows with only a touch. But we can’t. Instead, I get things like, there’s something I should tell you. That’s one of the worst phrases in the world because it’s always said much too late. And doubly too late when there are a bunch of armed and angry men lingering around.
Damon puts his hands on his hips and glares at the house.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper back and Calvino gives me a sharp look.
Charlie’s fingers dig insistently into my skin. “The story I told you about what Vince made me do.” Her voice twists and cracks like a lightning-addled ancient tree stump. “There’s a part I left out.”
I lean back to say something along the lines of, are you fucking kidding right now, but I don’t get the words out. Up at the house, Vince steps onto the porch and looks down at Damon like he wants to murder his brother, and probably does.
Damon goes forward and they talk. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and Charlie pulls at my wrist like she’s a little kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. Calvino twists in his seat and frowns from her to me.