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’ve humiliated me countless times.”
“Humiliation is ego. And news flash. You got wet.”
She glances way.
“Have I physically hurt you?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply.
“No, I haven’t because I take care of what’s mine. The difference between these men and me is that they prefer you dead. They prefer the foundation go to your uncle because then, they’re safe. He is malleable and he’s proven himself loyal—”
“Loyal?”
“Yes, loyal. Loyal to himself. To money. Not loyal to you, though.”
She stares up at me.
“And what I’m about to do I’m doing for your own good.”
“What does that mean?”
The door in the other room opens, and the final guest walks in. Well, he’s rolled in.
My father.
The others greet him, each coming to him in turn like he’s the fucking godfather.
“What’s he doing here?” Cristina asks.
I shift my gaze to her, reach into my pocket.
She sees me do it and backs up a step. She must think it’s another one of those needles. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?”
I close the space between us and take her left wrist.
“What are you doing?” She tries to tug free.
I take the ring out of my pocket and force her hand to unclench. I push it onto her ring finger.
“Damian!”
“Not the romantic proposal you’d dreamed of, I’m sure, but don’t expect me to get on my knees. That’ll be your place.”
“Fuck you. Get this goddamned thing off me!”
It’s a tight fit, but that’s on purpose. Once it’s past her second knuckle and snugly situated, I look at it, turn it so she can, too.
“What the hell—”
I remember Michela’s words. She wasn’t lying when she reminded me that Cristina, like everything else, was meant to go to my brother. I won’t be giving her up, though.
“It’s a blood diamond. The rarest in the world.”
“Get it off!” She tugs at it, yanks, but it doesn’t give. “It hurts, Jesus, what the hell is wrong with it?”
“Thorns.”
“Get it off me!”
“Unclench your fist.”
“Get it—”
“Unclench your fucking fist, and it won’t hurt.”
She does.
She studies the band. I press my finger into one of the teeth. “I designed it especially for you. Eight thorns. One for each year I waited.” My father would appreciate that actually, but I didn’t do it to please him.
“What?”
I brush the pad of my thumb over the diamond set in Elysium petals. The rose in the thorns. I tug her close, my rose, make her look at me with those wide, deer-in-headlights eyes.
“What the hell is this?” Panic pitches her voice high.
“It’s your engagement ring, Cristina.”
27
Cristina
“Gentlemen,” Damian says, his tone casual as we enter the room where those men are. It’s just down the hall from where we were.
He’s standing behind me, hands like weights on my shoulders.
I want to tell him to let me go. To get the hell away from me. But I look at all the eyes on us, on me, and I still. Because maybe I need him now. Maybe I need his protection from these men.
The feeling of dread, of animosity is like a physical thing in here. These men are not good men, and each set of eyes that I meet is more terrifying than the last.
The only one who doesn’t look at me like he wants to kill me is my uncle. His eyes are empty although I think he’s been drinking. He gets a flush to his face when he drinks.
Damian wasn’t lying. These men are my enemies. These men that I do not know are my enemies, and they do not wish me well. I see it. I feel it.
Tobias closes the door behind us but remains inside the room. I notice there are two more soldiers against the opposite wall.
Damian nods to each of the men as he walks us toward the long rectangular table.
The men follow, each of them taking a seat.
My uncle swallows the remaining liquid in his glass. I meet his eyes as he takes his seat, and what I see inside them is resignation. Like earlier at Mr. Maher’s office. And I realize he won’t help me. I don’t even know if he can.
When we get to the head of the table, Damian pulls the chair out. I sit down because I don’t want these men to see me tremble. To see my knees buckle in fear of them.
He stands behind me, hands firm on my shoulders. I try to contain a shudder as I remember his words and oddly take shelter in his weighted touch.
Which one had he said would rather I just disappeared?
Don’t worry. I won’t let that happen.
“I’d like to introduce you to Cristina Valentina, Joseph Valentina’s daughter.”
Everyone’s eyes are already on me, but no one greets me. No one says a word or smiles or even pretends to.
“She inherited The Valentina Foundation this morning.”
I want to push my chair back and leave, but Damian must sense it. He squeezes my shoulders in reassurance or warning. I’d bet the latter.