Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I want all the fucking secrets. I want to know the things her dad thought he could use against the Severinos. I want their destruction, but for much different reasons than he does. Is the man bitter? Did his daughter turn against him?
She’s too calm and cool when around them to make me think she’s actually not okay with who they are. Maybe she eased into their world without a hiccup.
I know she’s the key to the entire family, but I also know I didn’t exactly take her only for vengeance.
I could’ve easily gotten the information out of her without driving her three hours to the fucking Texas border, forcing her to cross a low point in the Rio Grande, and bringing her to one of my safe houses in fucking McAllen, Texas.
I could’ve driven her ten minutes away to a back alley and sliced at her skin until she started talking.
No, she’s not here only because of who she is and her connection to the Severino family. This is more than personal vengeance, more than just about Ellie.
I spin back around, facing her once again, but she’s frozen on the bed, despite her arms having to be killing her from the way they’re tied behind her.
I let my eyes roam, unconcerned about the way it makes me feel, uncaring of the absent shame as I spend a little too long looking between her crossed legs.
It’s very possible that I’m just as bad as the Severinos with the temptations running through my mind.
There were hints in the files about Ellie’s murder that Patrick believed her death was in retaliation to a traffic stop or some shit, but it didn’t make sense. I couldn’t ever believe that was possible, that someone would be angry about a ticket and it led to murder. I think Patrick was grasping at straws, trying to understand something so unimaginable happening to his little girl.
Could I hurt her? Could I be just like them? Can I punish someone for something they had no control over?
She has to be guilty of something. There’s no way Madelene Lombardi can walk beside a man like Alessio Severino with her head held high and not be just as guilty as him.
Complacency makes me mad enough to spit nails. If I had a way to take them all out, I’d include her fucking father in this as well. Any connection to the family is a bad connection. He’s part of the disease.
It makes me want to call Nash, but just thinking of his laughter and the way he’d joke around about this makes me want to track him down as well.
I leave the room because doing what I really want makes me no better than the men I stole her from.
They’ll come seeking their little toy. It doesn’t matter if she’s a captive or an active participant in their twisted way of life, they’d never leave it alone that I had the ability to take her right from under their fucking noses. It’s a fucking slap in the face, an insult. It would make every enemy question their strength. They can’t let it stand. I’m betting on all of it.
The tiny house doesn’t offer much of a reprieve from her. She’s silent, unmoving. If it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of her chest before leaving the room, I’d think she was dead. She isn’t whimpering or begging to be released against her gag like she did several times before entering the house.
I won’t let myself imagine that she’s just accepted her fate. Women like her don’t ever give up the fight. When she realizes that her compliance won’t help her, she’ll stop just like she did with the begging.
I haven’t been to this house in months, but it looks the same as it always has—sparsely furnished and unassuming. The longer I walk from one end of the house to the other, the angrier I get.
I know I’m pissed at the world, at my dad, at the entire Severino family… at myself.
I shouldn’t have this girl here. I shouldn’t stoop to their level. God, the way she flinched when I got close to her.
I’m no better than every other monster who puts their fucking hands on women. I can reason that I haven’t hit her, that she isn’t hurt, but even the scratches on her legs from the brush at the river make me feel like a piece of shit.
I haven’t decided whether I’m accepting my destiny as an evil man as I reenter the room or if I’m going to pay penance and ask for forgiveness.
She stiffens further when I enter the room, but she hasn’t moved other than that.
She doesn’t fight the restraints, doesn’t beg and plea against the gag in her mouth.
God, her fucking panties.
She tries to wiggle away, the first real sign of life when I brush her skin as I pull her dress down.