Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
A jolt rockets through my body when Dante uses my shock to his advantage. He steps out of an alcove of an abandoned building. His clean-shaven face concealed partially by a mask slams memories of the night Gabriele was conceived into me.
The mask, the heat, and the way the unnamed stranger made me feel seen tumble through me until I suddenly see the truth.
Until I suddenly see him.
“No, it can’t be. Edoardo—”
“Lied. He lied to you, Lucia.”
I shake my head, too shocked to let the truth settle in my heart. “Why would he do that?”
Dante pulls off the mask, exposing a facial structure that shunts me back five years. “Because you said it yourself. He lies, cheats, and steals to get what he needs.”
“I-I gave birth.” My stammer can’t be helped. I’m on the edge of a very steep cliff, seconds from free-falling.
“You did,” he agrees with me. “You just didn’t give birth to a little boy.” He knows his following words will hurt me, but he can’t keep the truth from me a moment longer. “Gabriele isn’t your child, Lucia. Camille is.”
Shock engulfs me so furiously I sway.
It barely lasts a second since terror immediately follows it.
“Where is Camille?” I shout, my naturally engrained maternal instincts breaking through the confusion. “They didn’t drag you into the open for no reason. They wanted you distracted.” Because they know what took me weeks to work out. He would give it all away for me.
Dante’s pupils expand to saucers, but he maintains calm. “They’ll never reach her at the compound. She’s safe there. You need to be on a list to enter…” His words trail off as fear jolts him back two places. “It’s Monday.” I’m lost until he adds, “They’re on the list. I placed them on the fucking list.”
Without another word spoken between us, we sprint for the surveillance van I spotted during our commute.
Dante barks out orders before his feet even land inside the van. “Call head of security. Now.”
Terror clutches my throat when Nico replies, “I’ve already tried to reach out. Three times. No answer. Whoever the mole is has infiltrated our security system and shut down comms. Anyone in the compound is a sitting fucking duck. We can’t issue them a single warning.”
That’s all Giovanni needs to hear to floor the gas. He races out of the wharf area at a speed far too fast to be safe, but no one cites an objection.
As Giovanni takes the weaving streets of Carlisle like a race car driver, Nico brings up real-time satellite imagery of the compound. I don’t breathe when he zooms in so fast it takes the pixelation a minute to clear.
My lungs finally answer the screaming demands of my head when everything looks how it should be. There are no burned buildings, no deceased guards. Even the main gates are closed and guarded by two men with machine guns strapped to their chests.
I try to tell Dante that this is a good sign, that Camille is safe, but my gut won’t let me. It’s been twisted up in knots for the past hour, and no number of false reassurances will loosen its clutch.
“Go through the groves,” I instruct Giovanni when his excess speed has us arriving at the compound in a record-breaking time. “They could be watching the gates, waiting for us to arrive.”
I stop there, but Dante speaks the words I refuse to say. “Because there’s no show without an audience.”
Giovanni tears the surveillance van through two rows of lemon trees, uncaring that he’s doing irreversible damage. When he pulls up to the back stairs of the Caruso manor, Dante and I sprint out the sliding side door and race for the wing of Camille’s room while Giovanni and Matteo clear the main living rooms.
A man in the foyer falters my steps when he tracks our race up the stairwell. I swear I’ve seen him before, but for the most part, my speed remains unchecked. Wondering why I remember his kind eyes can wait until after Camille is safely located.
My ribs, which I suspect are fractured from the bullet, scream with every step, but I don’t stop. My protective instincts have always been on point with Camille, but now they’re blinding.
By the time we reach the landing of Camille’s room, my lungs feel like they’re lined with sandpaper. Every breath scrapes painfully against the bruised ribs I’ll wear for eternity if they guarantee Camille comes out of this alive.
As we step inside Camille’s playroom, a heavy silence shrouds us. It hints that something is terribly wrong. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Silence doesn’t belong in a place meant for play, laughter, and a little girl twirling in the pink leotard she chose to wear this morning. It was covered in sequins similar to a stripper’s bikini.
“Dante…” I nudge my head to a man lying slumped near a large toy box. He’s unconscious but breathing, and his head is contorted at an unnatural angle. The nanny assigned to Camille this morning when I called in sick is lying next to him.