Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Break for this man.
This killer and monster.
Luca Valverde.
I hate him, truly hate him, and I also want him to grab my hair again and wrestle me under control and call me a good girl like he wants to fuck me into submission.
I close my eyes and try my breathing exercise.
Doesn’t fucking work.
The door clicks and opens. I sit up as Luca stands on the threshold. He looks at me, looks at the ring in my hand, and looks at the dregs of my breakfast. He seems pleased that I ate it. I’d tell him it was good, but I don’t want to give him the pleasure.
“Get up. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I climb to my feet.
“Be quiet and move.”
I let him take me into the hall then down a back staircase. I catch sight of his two associates sitting on a back porch, both of them smoking cigars and playing cards. They stare and say nothing, their expressions clouded. I can only imagine what they’re thinking right now, wondering if their boss has gone insane, if he’s going to get them killed.
I hope so.
Luca takes me out a side door and into the sunshine. I blink a few times, getting acclimated to the brightness. “Do I need shoes?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll be fine. Come on.”
We walk down a winding path. It leads away from the house up a hill—
And my breath catches in my throat.
The ocean spreads out before me like an endless blue highway broken by splashes of white as the surf rolls and breaks against the rocks below. Luca says nothing as I walk closer to the edge of the cliff, ignoring the rocks and rough sand beneath my feet. It’s beautiful, so much more beautiful than the ocean in my memory, and so large it makes me feel like a little girl again. It’s endless, infinite, impossible. I breathe the salty air, taste the seaweed scent, feel the sand-speckled breeze.
“You said you wanted to go for a run,” Luca says from behind me, closer than I thought. “Let’s go for a run.”
“You’re serious?”
He nods and I look at him. He’s wearing black joggers and a tight t-shirt, but he’s in running shoes.
“Come on.”
I follow him to a path that winds its way down the cliffs, getting closer to a beach below. I curse as I step over jagged stones, hopping carefully. “I thought you said I didn’t need shoes.”
“Mostly to keep you from trying to escape. I’m not sure how fast you are.” He turns and in one fluid motion, scoops me up into his arms. “This’ll be quicker.”
I gape at him in shock as he easily carries me down the remainder of the path. I want to fight, maybe punch him in the throat, but the prospect of running on the beach is too much to bear. I clutch his ring in my hand and try not to cry when we reach the bottom and he places me down on the sand.
It feels like heaven beneath my toes. Soft, fine grains, warmed from the morning sun. There aren’t any other people nearby, only gulls and crabs scuttling among the rocks.
He looks at me curiously, head tilted. I can’t read his expression. “Run,” he says.
And I run.
I run into the wind, grinning as I go, tears spilling down my face. I’m crying for how good it feels, for Perico and my father and my brothers and the life I left behind. I’m crying for myself too, but mostly I’m crying because I’m so damn happy to be outside, running in the sand.
He keeps pace. Not right on my hip, but close enough that if I tried to bolt, he’d easily catch me. I don’t care—let him watch. Let him wonder why running on the sand makes me cry. At this point, nothing else matters, and soon sweat rolls down my body, sweet and sticky and real, and the cool ocean breeze cools it as I breathe in a steady rhythm. Arms, legs, motion. I’m flesh and blood and real and alive as the waves lap at the wet sand and soak my toes. If Luca minds getting his shoes drenched, he doesn’t complain.
I got for as long as he’ll let me before he taps my hip and motions with his head. We turn and go back together, jogging side by side. He’s glistening too in the sunlight, like a beautiful Italian god, like a Roman myth made real. We reach the original beach again and I come to a slow stop, hands above my head.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asks over the pounding surf.
I nod once and chew my lip. I can’t ignore the way he’s looking at me, his eyes moving down my breasts to my hips and back up to my mouth. I want to thank him—every instinct tells me to thank him, to be meek and subservient, to be a nice Greek woman—but instead, I only smile. “That was good.”