Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I escaped into the music. I used to dream about playing—really playing—an instrument and losing myself in the rhythm and structure, the discipline of it. But my father shut that down fast. Said it was a waste of time. Said it wasn’t useful for a girl growing up in Colombia.
He had a very clear idea of what was useful. Music wasn’t on the list.
But cooking? That was allowed. That was practical.
So I learned to cook under the guidance of the chef on my father’s staff. Over time, I found something strangely beautiful in it. The way ingredients come together—how they react, transform, become something new. Something better. It’s precise. It’s dependable. If you follow the steps, if you respect the process, it all makes sense.
Unlike everything else in my life.
My favorite thing to do back in Colombia—when I was allowed to—was to help the chef in the kitchen while listening to Mozart.
Sometimes Chef didn’t want any distractions—and that included music—but on the rare occasion when he was in a better mood, he let me play the classical tunes while we worked.
Until I got older, and then he expected a different kind of payment…
But before that, my life was pretty good. I got to cook. I got to listen to music if not play it.
Until I turned fifteen.
When my father began to force me to entertain his friends and colleagues.
One of them became particularly enamored with me. An older man named Diego Vega. Just thinking about him makes me want to vomit.
I was promised to him for a while, but now he’s dead.
And I’m married to Vinnie.
In name only. Now that I’m eighteen and my status in the United States is safe, we’ll be dissolving our marriage.
Vinnie’s already engaged to Raven, anyway.
Belinda’s fingers scamper up and down the keys.
I stand at the doorway to the music room. Just behind it so she doesn’t see me.
She doesn’t like it when I watch her play. Says it makes her nervous. And sure enough, anytime I sit in there, she tends to make errors.
That’s something she’s going to have to learn to deal with eventually because she has an amazing future in music. One day, she’ll be playing for packed houses, and she can’t be nervous then.
For now, though, I stay out of the way. During the past several months that we’ve lived together, Belinda has looked up to me. I feel like a big sister to her, but in a way, I also feel like a mother to her. I’m only seven years older than she is, but she doesn’t have a mother. Her mother died years ago, and her father…
Well, he put her through the same kind of hell my father put me through. But she had it worse. She was so much younger than I was, and the man abusing her was her own flesh and blood.
At least with me, my father was merely my pimp, not my abuser.
How fucked-up is that? That I consider myself luckier than Belinda was?
Vincent Gallo Junior saved us both. He killed Diego Vega and married me to get me out of Colombia. He killed Belinda’s father and made arrangements for her to become his ward. He’s now her legal guardian, and he will be until she turns eighteen.
Vinnie Gallo did one other thing for me.
He killed my father.
I’m still not sure how I feel about my father’s death. He was a horrible man, to be sure. He was a criminal. He moved drugs and other contraband. Probably moved people as well. It wouldn’t surprise me.
And, of course, he forced me to be the sex slave of his fucking visitors.
That’s how I met Vinnie.
My father asked me to entertain him when he was our guest in Colombia, despite the fact that I was already betrothed to Vega.
Vinnie refused my offer.
Then he got me the hell out of there along with an old woman who my father had been keeping prisoner in our attic. I never even knew she was there.
So yeah, Jacinto Agudelo was a horrible man.
But he was still my father.
After my mother died in a car accident when I was only ten, he was actually kind of a good father. He was affectionate, but not disgustingly so. He never did the things to me that he allowed his business associates to do.
Normally, when I think of these things, I get nauseated, and my heart starts to race.
But not when I’m listening to Belinda play. The music helps me process these memories in a healthy way.
She puts such emotion and grace into her music. It’s like she becomes one with the notes, and somehow her entire personality—her entire being—flows through her fingers onto the piano keys and out through Mozart’s music.
I breathe in deeply, closing my eyes as I lean against the wall.
I’m so very grateful to be here. I’m so grateful to Vinnie for rescuing me and bringing me to the States. I’m grateful for what he’s done for Belinda as well.