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)
My pulse spikes as I beeline for the sheet that’s done a shit job of protecting Lucia’s privacy. I’ve stalked her numerous times the past two weeks. Within minutes of putting Camille to bed, I prop my shoulder against the shared wall and pretend to catch my breath after a long day.
Truth is, I’m listening. Not to invade or pry. Just to be close to her in a way I can’t be just yet.
Lucia’s studio is as vacant as the kitchen I passed by, and sparkles as if scrubbed spotless by a professional cleaning service.
I hired a company to clean both apartments weekly, but they’re booked until Friday. That’s tomorrow, right?
My jaw twitches as I check the hallway outside, hoping to see Marco stationed there. The corridor is empty, and the silence is deafening. Marco signs off when I’m present, so his absence means nothing on its own, but it also doesn’t mean Camille and Lucia are safe.
A cold, tight panic seizes my chest.
Confused, I swallow several times. My mouth is dry, thirst clawing at me enough to consider drinking from a toilet. I don’t recall drinking last night. I haven’t had alcohol in weeks. With everything happening with Edoardo and the custody mess with Anna, I avoided adding to the pressure of keeping Camille safe, so why did I go on a bender last night of all nights?
Needing answers, I contact the only person who can provide them.
Giovanni answers my call on the second ring. “Dante.”
“They’re gone,” I blurt, my tone raw and frantic. “I can’t fucking find them. I don’t remember if they told me they were going somewhere or if they’ve just vanished. I think I saw them last night—”
“Slow down,” he cuts in. “Who is gone?”
“Camille and Lucia. I woke up, and they were gone.” My stomach gurgles. “Could it be Edoardo?”
I can’t see Giovanni, but I imagine him shaking his head when a whoosh sounds down the line. “We’ve had eyes on him all week. He isn’t close to that region of Carlisle.” The swishing eases enough that I stop viewing the sink as a bucket. “Edoardo also has no reason to take Camille. He knows that will only end one way.” He makes a throat-slitting noise.
After a beat, I speak words I wish to never speak again. “What about Anna? Would she be stupid enough to do this?”
The thought of a mother hurting her child should be incomprehensible. Regretfully, I have to look at Anna’s relationship with Camille through tainted glasses. Camille has injuries consistent with prolonged mental and physical abuse.
The Anna I met on Halloween seemed strong enough to protect her child. But the Anna from last week is barely the woman she used to be.
“I’m skeptical,” Giovanni answers. “She doesn’t want custody of Camille. She wants money.”
I hum in agreement, though I don’t know why. Last week, Anna stated that this was about what was best for Camille. She insisted Camille needs both parents in her life. She even offered to return the twenty million I’d paid if I tore up the custody papers she’d only partly notarized.
“The fact you didn’t find Lucia and Camille in the apartment most likely means they’re together. Did you call Marco?”
My head throbs as I dismiss his question. “He clocks off when I’m home.”
“It’s three in the afternoon, Dante. I’m reasonably sure he would have clocked back on by now.”
I stop pacing and grip the counter until my knuckles ache.
“Even if Marco isn’t tracing their every move, Lucia will keep her safe,” he adds. “I’ve seen how she is with her on the surveillance clips they’ve come up in. She’s worse than a mama bear protecting her cub.”
The knot in my chest loosens a fraction. Giovanni is right. If Camille is with Lucia, she’s safer than ever. Lucia is fiercely protective and has shown Camille how to defend herself.
Just last week, I watched Lucia teach her how to escape a perp’s hold. She made it seem like a game, and Camille hung off her every word.
“You’re right.”
“I know.” I roll my eyes, and he waits for my growl to simmer before he asks, “And you, D? Are you okay?”
I want to tell him I’m fine, but honestly, I don’t even know what fucking day it is. Maybe Thursday? My mind is a blank slate where time should be. The lack of memories, on top of this week’s battles, has me at my limit.
Edoardo’s claim of matrimony was proven legitimate, so I legally cannot touch Lucia until she explicitly states, without coercion, that their marriage is over.
Having her close but not being allowed to touch her is fucking killing me.
It is the worst form of torture.
The void deepens when I check my phone. What I see floors me.
I’ve lost two days. Two whole days are fucking gone.
I scrub a hand over my face, and my heart rate kicks up a beat. A faint, unmistakable scent lingers on my hand. It’s not the ghastly floral products Anna slathers her skin in each morning. It’s sweet and intimately familiar.