Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“You have come all the way from England?”
“Yes.”
“For Alessia?”
“Yes. I’ve fallen in love with your daughter, and I believe she loves me, too.”
Her eyes widen. “She does?” She looks alarmed.
Okay…this is not the reaction I’d been expecting.
“Yes. She told me she does.”
“And you want to marry her?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that she wants to marry you?”
Ah!
“In truth, Mrs. Demachi, I don’t know. I haven’t had the chance to ask her. I believe that she’s been kidnapped and is being brought to Albania against her will.”
She leans her head back, her eyes intense, assessing me.
Shit.
“My friend Magda speaks well of you,” she says. “But I don’t know you. Why would my husband let you marry our daughter?”
“Well, I know she doesn’t want to marry the man her father has chosen for her.”
“She says this to you?”
“She’s told me everything. And what’s more, I listened. I love her.”
Mrs. Demachi bites her upper lip, and the mannerism is so reminiscent of her daughter that I have to hide my smile. “My husband will return soon. And it is for him to decide what will become of Alessia. His mind is set on her betrothed. He has given his word.” She looks down at her clasped hands. “I let her go once, and it broke my heart. I don’t think I can let her go again.”
“Do you want her to be trapped in a violent, abusive marriage?”
Her eyes whip to mine, and in them I see a glimpse of her pain and her insight, swiftly followed by her shock that I know—this is her life.
Everything that Alessia ever said about her father comes back to me.
Mrs. Demachi whispers, “You must go. Go now.” She stands up.
Fuck.
I’ve offended her.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I stand, too.
She frowns, looking momentarily confused and undecided. Then, suddenly, she blurts out, “Alessia will return here at eight o’clock this evening, with her betrothed.” She averts her eyes from mine for a moment, probably wondering if it was a good idea to impart this state secret.
Reaching out, I want to squeeze her clasped hands in gratitude, but I stop myself, as my touch may not be welcome. Instead I give her my most sincere and grateful smile. “Thank you. Your daughter means the world to me.”
She thaws briefly, rewarding me with a hesitant smile of her own, and again I see a little of Alessia in her.
She shows me to the door, where I slip on my boots and she ushers me out. “Good-bye,” she says.
“Are you going to tell your husband that I’ve been here?”
“No.”
“Okay. I understand.” I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile, and I head back to the car.
* * *
Back at the hotel, I’m restless. We’ve tried watching TV. Neither Tom nor I understand what we’re watching. We’ve tried reading, and now we’re in the bar. It’s on the roof and would offer an impressive daytime view of Kukës, the lake, and the surrounding mountains. But it’s dark and the dimly lit vista offers no solace for me.
She’s on her way home.
With him.
I hope she’s okay.
“Sit down. Maybe have a drink,” Tom says. I give him a sideways look. It’s at times like this that I wish I smoked. The anticipation and the tension are almost unbearable. After one slug of whiskey, I can bear no more.
“We’re going.”
“It’s too early!”
“I don’t care. I can’t stay cooped up here waiting. I’d rather wait with her folks.”
* * *
At 7:40 we return to the Demachi house.
Time to be a grown-up.
Tom waits in the car once more with Drita while Thanas and I walk down the driveway. “And remember, I’ve not been here before. I don’t want to get Mrs. Demachi into trouble?” I say to Thanas.
“Trouble?”
“With her husband.”
“Oh. I understand.” Thanas rolls his eyes.
“You understand?”
“Yes. Life is different in Tiranë. Here it’s much more traditional. Men. Women.” He grimaces.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my coat. I haven’t felt this nervous since my interview for Eton. I have to make a favorable impression on Alessia’s father. I need to persuade him that I’m a better option for his daughter than the arsehole he’s chosen.
That’s if she wants me.
Shit.
I knock on the door and wait.
Mrs. Demachi answers the door. Her eyes flit from Thanas to me.
“Mrs. Demachi?” I ask.
And she nods.
“Is your husband at home?”
She nods once more, and in case we’re overheard, I replay the introduction I made to her earlier in the day as if it hadn’t happened. “Come in,” she says. “You must speak to my husband.” Once we’ve removed our shoes, she takes our coats and hangs them in the hall.
Mr. Demachi stands when we enter a larger room at the back of the house. It’s an airy, spotless kitchen–cum–living room, the two areas separated by an arch. A pump-action shotgun hangs ominously on the wall above Mr. Demachi’s head. I note that it’s within easy reach.