Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“That’s very generous of you,” I muse.
“It’s the least I can do.” He nods solemnly, mistakenly assuming the matter is closed. “Toma will come around tomorrow to apologize in person. He’s on duty tonight.” He reaches for the glass, eyes the wine, and then pulls back his hand. “By the way, he told me the oldest boy showed up there this afternoon, but you already know that.”
I stand. “Thank you for your reassurance.”
He follows suit hastily, pushing to his feet. “For how long must Toma and Gianni carry on with this duty?”
“Until I say so.”
A pained look flashes through his eyes. “Haven’t we done enough already?” He picks up his hat and his scarf. “How much longer do you want us to pay?”
He’s such a good martyr. The suffering old man standing in front of me is a far cry from the horny one I met in his house. It’s something else I haven’t realized before—what a good actor he is.
“Until I say so,” I repeat.
He bows his head. “Whatever you say, Angelo.”
After a humble pause, he leaves the room.
Just as well I have eyes on the men who are supposed to watch my wife. I don’t trust my uncles any longer. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I will find out. So far, the informant I planted in Uncle Nico’s household produced nothing useful. The file the investigator sent me on Emilia didn’t prove valuable either. She’s just a middle-class girl trying to find a wealthy, old husband who’ll leave her a fortune when he dies. One thing is certain, I’m not fucking around with Sabella’s safety. Tonight still, I’ll triple the men who watch the new house, and I’m not saying a word about it to my family.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Sabella
* * *
When Heidi calls with fresh provisions the following afternoon, she tells me the news about the boys in a hushed voice where we’re unpacking the groceries in the kitchen. Sophie is out of earshot, watching television. Relief rushes through me. I didn’t stop worrying and wondering where they were.
“Do you think she misses them?” Heidi asks, jerking her head toward the lounge.
I bite my lip as I consider the question. “It’s hard to say. She never talks about them unless I ask questions.”
Heidi’s smile is warm. “Maybe she doesn’t miss them so much because she’s happy here.”
“I hope so.”
“It’s plain for anyone to see.” She goes on tiptoes to put a packet of tea in the cupboard. “Mrs. Russo—Teresa—would’ve been happy, I think. She never spoke about her family. But who could’ve blamed her?”
I’m still battling to understand their family relations, but I’m starting to get a better idea. The late Mr. Russo might have doted on his obedient wife, but they weren’t enemies from the onset. At least that advantage counted in their favor.
Once Heidi is gone, I wrap Sophie and myself up in our coats and go out for a walk.
“Let’s go down here,” Sophie says, pulling me toward the cliff.
“No, sweetheart.” I hold her back. “You’re never allowed to go near the cliffs. Remember what I said? It’s too dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t.” She tugs on my hand. “Over there. See? There’s a path. It goes all the way to the beach.”
I crane my neck for a better view. She’s right. Stone steps zigzag to the small half moon of white sand that borders the turquoise water.
“See?” she says again. “My brothers and I used that path to go to the village. It’s better to go this way if you don’t want anyone to see you.”
“It runs all the way to the village?”
“No, silly.” She turns her eyes toward the sky in a dramatic gesture that reminds me a lot of Johan. “It runs to the river, but you have to climb up a bit to get there. There’s another path we take from the river to the village. It goes all the way along the stream.” Taking on an important air, she adds, “If you walk straight down the valley, people can see you coming from far.”
This is how they managed to stay out of sight. They must’ve used the path when they slipped to the village to steal food.
“Who built the steps?” I ask. “Your great-grandfather?”
“No,” she says, dragging out the word. “Angelo did. He told the men to make them so that we could go down to the beach to swim in the summer.” She bobs her head as she says, “It gets very hot in summer. Angelo didn’t know Beatrice is afraid of water and that my brothers can’t swim. He needn’t have gone to so much trouble telling the men to make the stairs. Grandpa is too old to climb them anyway. Do you want to go down?”
The water pulls me with a force as strong as ever. A sudden pang of nostalgia hits me hard when an image of the beach and the surf in Great Brak River springs into my mind. The memory of swimming for miles into the sea and drifting on my back while the clouds made pictures in the sky leaves me homesick. The ocean has always been my safe haven. Water is the element in which I feel the most at home. I’m afraid if I go down there now, I’ll be swamped with longing and drowning in sadness.