Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
After treating me as his own personal sex slave for hours, Matteo bathed me, fed me, and held me close until exhaustion overwhelmed me.
I still can’t be sure I’m not dreaming.
This can’t be my life.
It doesn’t seem real.
It’s too perfect.
Guilt should weigh on me. To anyone outside my inner circle, it looks like I’ve abandoned the promise I made to my best friend for countless orgasms. Only Matteo and I know that isn’t true. He promised to find answers about Hattie’s suicide, and I believed him when he pledged to make sure the only place I’ve ever called home won’t be torn down.
Having someone finally listen to me feels so freeing that I almost float toward the valet instead of walking.
My eyes sting from the bright morning sun, yet its rays cannot keep my head in the clouds when I see the person in line ahead of me.
My father impatiently taps his foot as a young valet opens the door for my mother. He doesn’t tip or acknowledge the valet when he hands him his keys. He walks to the driver’s door, kicking up dust on his polished shoes, then slips inside.
I assume I’m in the clear. Then his head suddenly cranks, and his glare pins me in place. He glares at me as if he hates me.
Pity for him, I’m in too much of a love bubble to let his anger burst my happiness.
That’s why he’s angry, isn’t it?
There are no Happily Ever Afters in his world—only misery and pain.
I sense Matteo’s closeness half a second before my father’s expression changes. His gaze doesn’t become kinder. It’s too calculating to be anything but menacing.
“Are you okay?” Matteo asks, scanning the crowded loading zone for a read on my hardened expression.
Since most of our guests stayed overnight, the hotel foyer and valet were busy once check-out time arrived. Hopeful it would get us out of here sooner rather than later, Matteo helped the bellboy load my luggage into the SUV Giovanni sent to pick us up.
I nod once, curtly, then gallop down the stairs.
Not the best thought I’ve had.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the valet holding open the car door for me. Matteo tips him generously before slipping in behind me. We start the drive home with half the security convoy ahead of us and half trailing behind.
As the world outside the window blurs, I turn to face Matteo. “We could have taken your bike. Looks like a nice day for a ride.” I say my last sentence in a way even a monk couldn’t miss. It’s full of ambiguity.
“Are you implying my bike is the only thing you want to ride today, Mrs. Caruso?”
“Not at all, Mr. Caruso,” I reply, smiling. “Merely interested in learning how good you are at multitasking.”
Sirens interrupt Matteo’s reply, and then the convoy slows before eventually stopping.
“Stay here,” Matteo says.
I don’t listen. He doesn’t want a woman who stands back three places and bows her head at the slightest provocation. He wants someone who will stand by his side even when times are tough.
He huffs when I open the door and step outside, but that’s the only response he gives. Before we can figure out what’s causing the commotion half a mile away, the lead SUV’s security officer jogs toward us, pale and shaken.
“There’s been an accident,” he says. “A logging truck overturned on a sharp corner.”
My stomach drops. This is exactly why I never travel behind or next to a logging truck. Anyone who has watched Final Destination feels the same way.
Morbidly curious, I walk forward until the crash site comes into view. A logging truck didn’t just overturn. Its loose logs flattened a dark sedan like boulders rolling over an anthill. There’s no way the occupants inside survived. The once medium-sized Audi now sits as low as a sardine can.
“Do you know who was inside?” I ask, my throat scratchy. I lock eyes with Matteo. “This road is the only access route to the hotel. The occupants could be guests of ours.”
An officer on the scene clears his throat. “Audi is registered to…”—he flicks through a notepad—“Leone Greco. He was staying at the hotel with three of his cousins: Mikel, Roko, and Sansone.” His eyes lift from the notebook. “Do their names ring a bell?”
I shake my head. Our guest list was huge, but since I was responsible for the seating chart, I memorized each name by heart.
“Perhaps they were just guests at the hotel?”
“Perhaps,” Matteo murmurs, joining me near the officer. “Do you have any photos of them?”
“Ah… yeah.”
As the officer scrolls through the album’s app on his phone, Matteo pulls me to his side.
I learn why when the officer shows me a recently printed surveillance image. Despite not seeing them well, the faces of the men my father used to threaten me with are permanently seared into my memory.