Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
My pulse spikes.
Oh. My. God. Am I going to be an unintentional witness to a scene?
I move as quietly as possible behind the cushions and whisper a plea to the universe that I’m small enough they don’t see me.
I peek through a tiny hole between the cushions, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand. One of Sergio’s men drags in his latest victim, covered in so much blood his face is unrecognizable and his eye is swollen shut. Oh, God. Does he look a bit familiar? Is he one of the members here, or… I watch as Sergio’s guy lifts his victim by the shirt and throws him onto the floor. The man lets out a little moan as if he almost wishes this was over and he didn’t have to suffer anymore.
What the actual fuck is going on here?
I stop breathing… I can’t let them see me. If I let them see me, I’m fucked.
A shiver runs through me when a sliver of moonlight illuminates his face, highlighting a strong jawline, full lips, and a dangerous hint of a scar. But he's big, he's scary, and he’s going to fuck this guy up.
Adriano Bruno.
Now I know I shouldn't be here. I really, really shouldn’t be here.
“I told you what would happen.”
Oh, God, oh, God. He told him what would happen?
I can see the entrance to the closet from here. At least I think it's a closet, but I pray it's a doorway that leads out of this fucking room.
I could… crawl over on my belly…
No. He might hear me. I try to convince myself he’s a little preoccupied at the moment, but the risk is too high. I shake my head and gently lower myself to my belly, grateful for those yoga classes because this would otherwise be a very uncomfortable position for me.
I slither my way to the door as a fist thumps against flesh and another cry erupts. “I told you if I caught you again what the consequence would be. I never give second chances and you fucked up.” Another slam of a fist. I flinch. It sounds like someone striking an anvil. God, he’s going to beat this man to death.
I make it to the door and my heart soars. Maybe this is not just an entrance to a closet but an escape route. The sound of cars driving past is unmistakable, which tells me that we’re on an outer wall near a street. Good, good.
I turn to throw myself through the doorway and try to remember a prayer from my school days, but I can't. Right before I leave, there's a little “ping, ping, ping” sound on the floor. I look down; my coveted pearl earring is rolling away from me.
Noooo! I am not going to leave it here.
First of all, big, scary mafia dude may find it. Second of all, that earring means something to me. It’s pretty much the only thing that does.
I have to go back for it. At that very moment, metal clicks and I realize that’s—the sound of a gun being cocked.
Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD! I look frantically for the pearl and don't see it anywhere. I can buy another one! No. I can't. Because those wouldn't be given to me by the only person who ever loved me.
Now in a complete panic, I keep looking around as the man pleads for his life. Oh my God. Finally, the smallest glimmer of a pearl shimmers into view and my fingers close around it just as the trigger is pulled. My thoughts are drowned out by a scream of pain and the blast of a gunshot. Another.
Jesus Christ. I get closer to the door just as a sharp voice shouts, "Who the fuck is that?"
The old expression says, “if looks could kill”…but I'm wondering right now if a tone of voice could kill. I run to the door, yank it open, and flee. I get to the parking lot, my hands trembling. Of course, I took public transportation here. I don't own a car.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. I look wildly up and down the street teeming with cars and exhaust, bright streetlights illuminating my way. Footsteps follow me at an oddly leisurely pace, as if their owner is certain he’ll get me. I run to one of the cars that’s paused at a red light and pound wildly on the door.
The driver turns at the light and zips away without making eye contact, likely convinced I’m some kind of a lunatic. No. I knock at the door of the next vehicle stopped at the light, a pick-up driven by a tough-looking guy. He starts to roll down his window but takes one look behind me and guns his engine, driving straight through the red light. I stare after him, frantic.