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)
He does have good timing, my father. I did just explain to her that this year of her life belonged to me.
And she’s a smart girl. She’s put together that it will be her last year. At least if he has his way.
I just didn’t think I would struggle with this particular piece myself.
14
Cristina
“What did he mean? Would you welcome me like you did your sister?”
His jaw tightens. “Nothing. Forget it.”
Damian takes the whiskey from my hands and finishes it, then pours another and sits down beside me.
“Here.”
I take it absently. “He’s here. In this house.” I knew he was. I knew all along.
“Let’s go upstairs.” He stands, holding out his hand.
I look at it, note the calluses. It’s the one that’s not damaged. I think about what those hands are capable of.
Then I look around at the house. The mansion. I think about what he’s been able to do. How he and his father got away with murder. How they used my family’s foundation. Bought my uncle. How Damian kidnapped me while people stood by and watched.
“How do you do it?” I ask finally.
“Do what?”
“Get away with murder? Kidnapping?” My uncle warned me about him. About the family. He said they’re dangerous. I knew it already, though.
Damian’s jaw tenses. He drinks the whiskey.
“What will you do to me in this year, Damian?”
No response. He turns as if to survey the room. Is that guilt? Can he not look at me because of guilt? I doubt it.
“And what happens to me after?” My voice breaks on that last word. Because I’m pretty sure there is no after. Not for me. “Am I free to go then? When it’s over?” It’s a pointless thing to ask. A waste of words.
Tears stream down my face. I can’t keep up wiping them away.
“Will you get away with my murder too?”
“Christ, Cristina.”
He sets the empty glass down, eyes zeroing in on me, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still in his suit. Does he go to work in an office or something? Why else would he be in a suit?
“Tell me what you do. Where your money comes from.” Because whatever it is, it’s not legal. This family, they’re above the law.
“Imports and exports. The Di Santo family owns a shipping company.”
“Imports and exports of what? What do you ship exactly?”
“That doesn’t impact you.”
“Tell me.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Who am I going to tell? The house is surrounded by woods, you told me so yourself. You lock me in my room. You own my year, and there isn’t going to be another one after that, is there? So just fucking answer me.”
His eyes grow darker, utterly unreadable, but he doesn’t answer. He swallows the rest of the whiskey and moves to pour another instead.
I need to get out of here. Get out of this crazy house.
I’m on my feet in an instant and in the dining room.
“Cristina.”
I grab his dirty dinner knife.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Turning, I glare at him, holding the knife between us.
“Cristina,” he starts, tone patient. “I asked you what you think you’re doing.” He puts his whiskey down, and I eye my path to the exit just beyond him.
“Get out of my way, Damian.”
He takes a step toward me, but I don’t back up. I sidestep him. He’s not scared of me, though, not even when I’m brandishing a knife at him. He puts his hands up between us, palms toward me, eyes on mine, then the knife, then back to mine.
“Give me that. Don’t be stupid.”
I shake my head, thoughts of his father’s words racing frantically, his voice, the hate in his eyes. Damian’s manner with me, how he plays with me.
This is a game to him. To them. I am a game to them.
“I said get out of my way,” I tell him, but when he steps toward me, I turn the knife on my own neck.
His jaw clenches, and he stops.
I push the point, wincing as skin breaks. But this is the only way he’ll know I’m serious.
Am I serious?
“Cristina.” His eyes follow what I feel to be warm blood sliding down over my throat, down to the hollow between my collar bones.
I feel nauseous. Dizzy. It’s the wine and the whiskey and not enough food and meeting his father.
Shit.
His father.
“Cristina,” he says more cautiously. “Give me that knife.”
I walk around him, leaving a wide berth. “You afraid I’ll ruin your fun if I slit my own throat?” I wince, drag the knife, cut more skin. It hurts. Shallow as the cut is, it still hurts like hell.
Maybe I’m not as weak as he thinks.
Maybe I’m not as weak as I think.
“Stop!”
When I pass him, I pick up the subtle scent of aftershave. He’s become familiar to me in so short a time.
But maybe it’s something I’ve held on to all these years. Something I subtly registered and catalogued for later.