Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I crouch down and meet the girl’s eyes, taking her in as hers wander along the scar on my face. I see the still-angry-looking gash across her cheek from the accident that killed her mother. That almost killed her.
“You want to see your sister?” I ask quietly.
The girl’s expression changes as she meets my eyes, cautious but curious. I raise an eyebrow, and she slowly nods.
I stand and hold out a hand.
“Vittoria is waiting for you.”
She looks at her nanny, then back at me, at my hand.
“We need to move,” Jarno says.
“Let’s go,” I tell her and am surprised when she reaches out her hand. I scoop her up, expecting her to yell or scream and alert the guard waiting in the other room, but she does neither. She’s quiet as a mouse, only holding her hand out to her nanny as I carry her across the room.
Before the guard has to grab the nanny, she’s on her feet, rushing to take Emma’s little hand, and we’re out of the house. It says something about Lucien that the little girl is so willing to leave with me in the hopes of seeing her sister. I don’t hear a gunshot after I’m out—even silenced, you know the sound—so when Jarno joins me in the SUV as I load the girl and the nanny in and we pull away, I raise my eyebrows.
“Doc should wake up by the time their appointment is over but apart from having a headache, he’ll be fine. We want Russo to get his money’s worth, and shrinks are expensive.”
I chuckle, then glance at the girl beside me who is staring up at me. She’s still not spoken a word, sitting with her back pressed into the nanny’s side.
“Her brother,” the nanny starts, voice trembling, forcing me to look at her. “He’ll pay the ransom. Please don’t hurt her.”
I snort. “This isn’t about ransom.” I take my phone out, snap a selfie with the girl, and send it to Amadeo. He sees it but doesn’t respond. I know why. He’ll be at the church by now or well on his way. And showing Vittoria the photo of the little girl will give her that nudge she needs to do as she’s told and move us forward to the next step of this plan.
22
Vittoria
Being back here is strange, especially at this time of night. It must be around eleven by now, and the square is empty, the town quiet. Amadeo’s soldiers in their SUVs are the only ones making any sound at all as he climbs out of ours and walks ahead of me toward the large double doors. I follow him, a soldier on either side of me and one at my back. They’re not taking any chances I’ll run. As if I’d have anywhere to go. As if they couldn’t catch me.
My steps are quiet on the stairs today. No heels. Just a pair of espadrilles. I’m not dressed for church. A soldier pulls the heavy, creaking door open when we reach it, and I’m comforted by the lingering scent of incense. It’s my only comfort as I shudder with a chill on this warm night. The heat must never fully penetrate this place. The stone walls are too thick.
I listen to the sound of Amadeo’s shoes as I follow him up the aisle. The pews are empty except for two at the front. Similar to the last time I was here. The day I was to bury my father. I hug my arms to myself, glad when I near the front to see that the blood has been cleaned off the stone floor. Although this close to the altar, I swear I can smell the perfume of the lilies from that day. A cloying suffocating stench. I hate lilies. They are the flowers of funerals.
In the front pew, I recognize the man who stands. Bruno Cocci. I met him at the restaurant. A woman beside him also stands. She’s wearing a cream-colored suit and holding rosary beads in her hands. She smiles at me. I wonder if she’s his wife.
Bruno steps into the aisle to greet Amadeo. They discuss something, their voices too low for me to follow. Amadeo slips him a piece of paper, which Bruno tucks into his pocket before turning to me.
“Vittoria, it’s nice to see you again,” he says warmly as if this were a friendly visit. As if I weren’t under duress. Because he knows I am. He knows all of it. I’m being blackmailed into marrying my enemy. My sister is his hostage until I do. And even then, after, what’s to stop him from going back on his word? From demanding more? Had I thought this man friendly or kind even when I’d first met him? I am an idiot.