Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Which explains why I’m in my room at the Naples house with a fucking pounding headache. I’m actually not sure if I’m hungover or still drunk.
I get up and have to hold on while the world rights itself.
“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”
I get to the bathroom, take a piss then wash my hands and my face. I look like hell. Like death barely warmed over. I’m surprised the mirror doesn’t crack.
“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”
Scarlett’s voice repeats that sentence for the tenth fucking time. I remember when she said it. How I thought it sounded odd. And I think about last night. About how I felt when I was inside her. When I realized the truth.
Betrayed. That’s the feeling. It hardens you.
“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”
I open the medicine cabinet and swallow four aspirin. It won’t help, I already know.
I’m just walking out of the bathroom when the bedroom door opens. My uncle is standing there with a strange look on his face. He’s not dressed in his usual suit but in his pajamas. I’m not sure I’ve seen him in anything but a suit since I was a kid.
“What time is it?”
“Early. Seven.”
I glance to the window. The sun is a line of deep orange in the break of dark clouds that still dirty the sky. I turn back to my uncle, sobering up as I take in the pajamas, the expression on his face.
Warning bells ring in my ears. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
“What is it? What’s happened?” I hear myself ask.
“There was a problem.”
My heart races as my brain processes. “What problem?”
“You should have told me where you were going.”
“What. Problem.”
“Sit down.”
“Fucking tell me.”
“There was an ambush.”
“What?” My stomach bottoms out.
“All the soldiers are dead.”
Dead. “Scarlett?”
“They were probably looking for you.”
“Scarlett?” I ask again through gritted teeth.
“It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”
“Scarlett!” I demand.
“Gone.”
36
Scarlett
We drive for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. All I hear in the trunk of this old, beat up sedan is rain. All I feel is every bump, every tiny stone, every pothole on the road.
My wrists are bound behind my back. My shoulders and arms ache and the zip ties they bound me with cut into the skin of my wrists. I’ve managed to turn myself, so my feet touch one of the rear lights. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish though. Kicking out the light? And then what?
After a sharp, bumpy turn and a long road of what must be gravel, the car slows to a stop. My heartbeat picks up. I hadn’t realized it had calmed at all during the drive. I hear men outside, smell cigarette smoke. They’re speaking Spanish. That’s the one thing of importance to note. Cartel soldiers? Makes sense. Most important question is what am I to them? Their enemy’s wife or the cartel’s princess?
I’m going to guess the former since I’m riding naked in the trunk.
Someone pops the trunk and although dawn has hardly broken, I have to squint after the complete darkness of the trunk. I hear seagulls overhead and smell fish. As I start to move, the man who punched me, reaches in to lift me out.
We’ve arrived at a harbor. A crappy, run-down little harbor nothing like the ones tourists go to. The boats at the docks look like they had their best days a century ago.
I smell dead fish and cigarette smoke as I stand shivering in the cold morning air, my feet bare on the gravel, my body naked.
Someone lights a match, and my attention is drawn to the sound. It’s my uncle.
Without a glance, he walks past me toward another man I don’t know. That man gestures with a nod and my uncle walks to a sedan with tinted windows. It’s parked just beyond a busted streetlamp in the shadow of a building. I can just make out the shape of two heads in the backseat.
The door opens and I see a pair of khaki slacks. I squint my eyes to see who it is and my heart pounds, the alarm in my head sounding the warning to run. The man inside places a hand on the car door to help himself out. The watch. I know it. And I feel the blood drain from my face as Marcus Rinaldi steps out of the vehicle. Both he and my uncle turn to me.
I make a sound and I realize when my body tries to move, to run, that I’m still bound at ankles and wrists while two soldiers hold me still.
From here I see Marcus’s gaze slide over me, watch his grin widen as he takes me in.
The hands tighten on my arms as I draw back.