Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“You recognized him,” he says.
“He was at our house the night my father died. I’d woken up from the storm, afraid, so I’d gone downstairs. When I got to my father’s study, I heard voices. Strangers and my dad. My dad was upset. Very upset. But then the man from tonight, Damian Di Santo, came into the hallway. He must have heard me. He got me a glass of water and took me back up to my room. But there were other men in the study too. They made him do it, Uncle Adam. They made him. He wouldn’t have killed himself.” I choke on the last part of that statement.
“Shit.” My uncle is on his feet and pouring us both a whiskey. He carries one over to me. I take it even though this is as far from normal as it can get around here. As far as he’s concerned, whiskey is a man’s drink, and besides, I’m too young for it.
“I should have told someone,” I say.
“Nothing would have changed.”
“You believe me?”
He nods.
“Why didn’t you say something? Do something?”
He doesn’t answer. He sips his drink instead and I get the feeling his answer would be the same as a moment ago. That nothing would have changed if he had.
I follow his lead and drink a sip. It burns. I’ve tried whiskey before, but I don’t like it. I like beer, wine, and sweet cocktails, but whiskey just isn’t for me.
“Did you see an older man in a wheelchair?”
I think back but can’t remember. Although, there is one detail that had stood out. The sound of wheels on our hardwood floors.
“Maybe. I didn’t get a chance to see anyone before he—Damian—closed the door.”
“Well, either way, you’d better forget what you think you know about that night because it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Of course, it matters. My father was murdered. They murdered him.”
He sighs deeply. “Forget anything you remember. For your own sake.”
“What does that mean?”
“The Di Santo family, Cristina, they’re not from here. Not from the city, I mean. The main seat of the family is Upstate, but in certain circles throughout North America and Europe, their name commands respect.”
“I won’t respect—”
“And instills a certain level of fear.”
His tone gives me pause.
“What does that mean?”
“The car accident that killed your mother and brother, the one where your father was driving, the occupants of the other car were the Di Santo family. They were on their way to Damian’s sister’s wedding.”
“What?” It’s like he just knocked the wind out of me.
“Benedict Di Santo, his wife, daughter, and two sons were in the vehicle your father hit. They were a few blocks from the church where Annabel would be wed. Benedict’s wife died on the scene. Damian was scarred, as you saw.”
“What about the others? The brother and Annabel?”
“The brother, Lucas, I don’t know about. I know he didn’t die in that accident, but he was badly injured. Annabel was left in a coma. She died almost a full year later. It was the night after her burial that they came to pay that visit to your father.”
I shudder. “I don’t understand this.”
He unfolds the sheets of paper and gestures to the one I’m holding. “That’s the original, I guess.” I glance at the one on his desk. A copy of the contract.
I stare up at my uncle, not believing this. “You knew about this?”
He doesn’t reply, doesn’t deny it.
“You’ve known all along they’d come for me? All those flowers, the notes…you knew they were in my house the night my father was murdered.”
“You lost your brother and your mother. Benedict lost his wife and his daughter. His daughter was three months pregnant at the time.” My hand naturally goes to cover my mouth. “He had a stroke just a few months after the accident. It left him in that wheelchair.”
“I didn’t know. I never even asked about the other car. The people.”
“You were young.”
“I should have asked.”
He shakes his head. “When his daughter died, Benedict came for you. I think her death was the thing that drove him over the edge of reason. It was you he wanted that night.”
“Me?” My heart misses a beat and a cold sweat collects under my arms.
“Your father bought you time.” He gestures to the sheet of paper in my hand.
Enjoy your last few hours of freedom, Cristina, because come midnight, you belong to me.
“They can’t enforce this. Surely…”
I look up at my uncle. What I see in his eyes, it terrifies me, because I see that yes, they can. But there’s more.
“You’ve known about this all the time I’ve lived here.”
“There was nothing I could do.”
“You’ve known they killed your brother.”
Something in his eyes makes me uneasy. It takes me a moment to figure out what it is. They’re devoid of emotion.
“Did you know that by the time your father died, he’d gotten himself into some trouble?” he asks.