Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Buenos días, Mamá,” he sighs.
“Good morning, hijo.” She drops her spoon.
Draco looks over at me. “Gianna.”
“Morning,” I murmur.
He looks away, at the entrance of the kitchen. Emilio appears with a bowl of cereal for him, too. This isn’t like the meals we had at the mansion—the multi-option, wholesome meals that I used to die for.
This hot cereal is basic, simple. Just enough to get you through the morning. Now that I think about it, most of the meals I’ve had here are very simple—chicken with rice or potatoes. Breakfast would be waffles with fruit, or toast with eggs.
“I think I will read by the pool today,” Mrs. Molina says after finishing up her food.
“Go and enjoy yourself,” Draco mumbles before taking a bite of his meal.
She nods, and Emilio steps up and grabs her bowl. “Would you like me to get anything for you while you’re by the pool, Mrs. Molina?” he asks in Spanish.
“No, honey. I will be fine, but thank you.” She smiles at him, and then me, and then takes off, humming.
When I can no longer hear her happy tune, Emilio leaves, and I look over at Draco. “You haven’t told her.”
“Told her what?”
“About Thiago.”
He looks at me with cold, dead eyes. No response.
I sigh, my appetite completely gone now. “Maybe I should tell her.”
“You won’t speak a fucking word of it,” he snarls at me, brows stitched.
“She deserves to know. She loved Thiago.”
“I know she did, and if she finds out why he died and what you did, she will fucking despise you. She is the only one who thinks you are an angel, and I want it to stay that way—not for my sake or yours—but for Lion’s. You need her to have your back, because if she doesn’t, you may just end up dead around here.” He shoves back in his chair, causing a screech on the hardwood floorboards. He stands up tall, glaring down at me, pointing a stern finger in my face. “You will not say a fucking word. She doesn’t need to know another family member of hers is dead. She doesn’t know we are under threat—not this severely—so keep your fucking mouth shut and stay out of her goddamn way.”
He stalks away, and before I know it, a door slams, making the walls shake. I flinch when I hear it, eyes wet, throat thick with emotions I can’t stand feeling. I stare down at my uneaten food.
My hands are fucking shaking, my heart still racing. My gut feels twisted into a thousand knots.
No one here is on my side. No one but Mrs. Molina, and even I know that won’t last for long—not when she finds out what really went down.
For the rest of the day and the next, Draco doesn’t say a word to me. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are set up, but only his mother is at the table. He doesn’t show, though I know he is around.
Mrs. Molina makes excuses for him, saying he’s been very busy lately, but she has no fucking idea what is even going on.
Mrs. Molina and I spend time together at the pool after several meals, but I don’t dare bring up Thiago or even Draco. Instead, I encourage her to talk about Los Cabos, this home, and even about what book she’s currently reading. Though she is engaging and lively, I find it hard to concentrate on what she’s saying. Every time she speaks, her voice becomes a hum, distant in the background.
Instead, I hear the ocean roaring from far away, the crunching of cars running over asphalt and gravel. I hear my slow, thudding heart, and the raging, screaming thoughts in my head. I am aware of every single thing, including how close I am to losing my sanity.
Mrs. Molina is still out by the pool when I decide to grab some bottled water. As I enter the kitchen, I see Draco outside on the terrace. He has a phone glued to his ear, his back facing me. His shoulders are hunched, and his hair is a disheveled mess being tousled by the wind.
He turns a fraction, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. There are bags beneath his eyes, and his eyebrows are dipped and glued together.
He is furious.
He orders something into the receiver of the flip phone, and then he slams it closed right before slamming it down on the ground and breaking it in half. He grips the guardrail in front him, shoulders still hiked up and tense, breathing heavily like a savage beast.
He finally turns, peering over his shoulder, and his eyes find mine.
I don’t speak. Really, what can I say? I expect him to come in and talk to me—to say something, even if it’s rude or mean or whatever. But he doesn’t. He comes inside, but his eyes are no longer on mine.