Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Ahren? What’s an ahren?
I stay perfectly still when he tells the driver the consequences he’ll face if he’s ever late again, before he enters the truck to give the crates a cursory glance.
He isn’t here for the lemons. I’m sure of it. He barely glances at the fruit. It is as if they’re a cover for something far more sinister.
As his gaze sweeps over the crates at the back, his eyes land on me. My heart stops. I’m confident he saw me wedged awkwardly between crates of his merchandise, but he doesn’t utter a word. Instead, he retrieves his phone from his pocket and thumbs the screen.
With my heart in my throat, I watch him read something off his phone. A lazy smirk curls on his lips only a second before he twists to face the driver.
I’m certain he’ll tell him he has a stowaway, so you can imagine my surprise when he says, “I don’t care if you have to push these crates onto the ship yourself. I want them offloaded and in transport within the hour. Understood?”
The loose skin on the driver’s neck wobbles when he nods in agreement.
“But before that, I need a local’s perspective on the best restaurant for my ahren to experience a true Sicilian feast…” The exporter’s words trail off when he walks toward the office of the docks with the driver following him like a lost puppy.
A mix of relief and confusion fills me.
Why didn’t he say anything?
Is he letting me go, or is there something else at play?
I’m truly lost.
Although I want to look deeper into his decision, with the driver preoccupied with playing tourist guide, now could be my only chance to escape.
After exiting the truck, I join the throng of workers covered with the grime of a long shift. The nightshift workers are clocking out for the day. My escape couldn’t have been better orchestrated.
As I approach the exit, I cast a final glance at the exporter. Although he acts as if he doesn’t notice me, his upturned lips betray him.
He’s trouble. I can feel it. But I’m not sticking around to find out what kind.
My legs feel as heavy as bricks, and they make the walk from the docks to my aunt’s place seem unusually long. They’re not weighed down because I’m unfit. This is the result of how I use my muscles during back-to-back orgasms.
Sweat beads on my nape when I finally reach my aunt’s front door, but the exertion of climbing five levels isn’t the cause. It’s from reliving every second in the lemon grove last night. It was blissfully serene.
The door creaks shut behind me when I let myself in, but the silence in the living room makes butterflies take flight in my stomach. I dump my bag by the door and call out for Mom and my aunt. A knot twists low in my stomach when I don’t get an answer. I don’t expect a reply from my aunt. I didn’t see her at the docks, but I was too busy blending in to search for her. She’s normally at work at this time of the day. But Mom? I anticipated a reply from her.
Dread runs down my spine when I enter the bedroom and find Mom’s bed vacant. She wouldn’t have gone out. She can’t. Most days, she can barely make it from the bed to the living room unaided.
I check the kitchen, the bathroom, and even the miniature balcony. The apartment’s tiny footprint allows for a quick search, but each empty room intensifies my fear.
My mother is nowhere to be seen.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, place the battery back in, and then check for any missed calls. The screen is blank. I give myself thirty seconds to panic before I force myself to think logically.
If Mom isn’t here, where else would she be?
The unwanted answer slowly sneaks up on me. Maybe something bad happened, and my aunt had to take my mom to the hospital. That’s probably why I didn’t see her at the docks. Again, I wasn’t looking, but my theory is the only one that makes sense.
I bolt for the exit as the panic curled around my throat chokes me.
As the door swings open, a shadow falls across the threshold, and I freeze. Giovanni’s impressive frame, bristling with anger, obstructs the only way out.
20
VALENTINA
The narrowed slit of Giovanni’s eyes can’t hide how stormy they are, and his jaw is set so rigidly I’m surprised it hasn’t cracked. He stands in the doorway, blocking my path, unmoving and unspeaking. He’s angry, there’s no doubting that, but a gentle softness also emanates from him. I might be mistaken, but it resembles relief.
His eyes remain on me as he takes out his phone and calls someone. “I’ve got her,” he states curtly. “Tell Matteo to send thanks to Nikolai. Our crew eventually would have spotted her walking home, but it was nice to have a heads-up of her last known location.”