Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Sergio powers down his phone and tosses it on a side table.
“I’m going to let her in.”
My heart surges. I nod and shrug, all nonchalant and shit. “Yeah.”
“Before I do, I have some questions for you.”
“Okay? Ask me anything.” I stare at him, unblinking. I thought we finished the interrogation, but he has more to ask.
Doesn’t mean I’ll tell you everything.
I expect him to ask who took me and what they did. To ask what I can remember about what they did to me, what their plans are, if I got any intel I need to bring to them. Instead, he asks the last question I expect.
Leaning forward, Sergio rests his forearms on his legs. His gaze on me reminds me of my father, only Sergio’s eyes still spark with humanity. “Did you compromise Starla?”
I clench my fist and hold his gaze. “Fucking never.”
I beat the shit out of a motherfucker who hit on her at Hampton Beach, the day she decided to try out a two-piece swimsuit. When she was a senior in high school, I once helped her into the back of my pickup, scantily clad and puking her shitfaced guts out, then got her meds and Gatorade and a place to crash so Sergio and Eden wouldn’t ground the fuck out of her.
I watched her grow from a girl to a woman before my very eyes.
“I never did, Sergio.”
“You give me your word?” I watch him take a switchblade out of his pocket and flick it open.
Shit.
Still holding my gaze, he scratches a short line along his inner arm until it bleeds, then hands me the knife.
To others, this would look barbaric and uncivilized, but I know what he means and why he does it. It’s the highest form of honor and respect to swear a blood oath.
I swallow and nod, still holding his gaze as I lightly slice my own flesh, just enough to make the blood bubble to the surface, then press my arm to his. “I give you my word.”
“Tell me you’ll protect her, Timeo.” His fingers lace around my elbow, clamping our arms together. “Promise me.”
My hand laces around his forearm, joining him in clamping us together so tightly I can hardly breathe. “You have my fucking word. I promise no matter what, I’ll protect her, Sergio.”
No matter what.
Even Sergio Montavio has no idea what that will mean.
CHAPTER SIX
Starla
“Storm’s heading in,” Giorgio says, staring at the weather on his phone. “No one’s going home tonight.”
“Great,” I snap. “Dow Jones is up, too, isn’t it? Looks like trouble in the Middle East. The Red Sox acquired a star pitcher in the off season, and rumor has it the governor may increase the school budget after all.” I lean in. “Who the fuck cares? I. Want. To. See. Timeo. And I want to see him now!”
“I want a golden goose,” someone says behind me in a singsong voice. I turn around and there’s Mario Rossi, Timeo’s cousin, leaning against a doorframe. Tall and lean and ruthless in a fight, Mario’s an iconic member of the Rossi family and by proxy, a Montavio as well since they’re all cousins.
“I want a what?”
“God,” Mario groans. “I forget you and Eden don’t know shit about pop culture. Willy Wonka? Veruca Salt, the spoiled brat, wants a golden goose to lay a golden egg, and she —”
“Shut it, Mario,” I say, trying fruitlessly to hide the tone of petulance in my voice.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat,” he says, holding out a white pastry box. One of Mario’s redeeming qualities is the fact that he owns a pastry shop in the North End. “Here, have a cannoli.”
A sensible action, really. It’s hard to be pissy when you’re eating a cannoli.
I glare at him when he opens the box, but in the end do the smart thing. I take a cannoli.
“I want to see him,” I say around a mouthful of decadently sweet, creamy mascarpone cheese. “Shit, this is good.”
“When’d you start cursing like a sailor? When I met you, you were all demure and respectful. What happened to you, kiddo?”
I shrug. “You guys all talk like truck drivers. I find cursing brings stress relief. And also? I was never, ever, demure. I am not a mini-Eden.”
He shrugs and helps himself to a cannoli. “True. But I bet Eden hates you swearing.”
“Eden hates a lot of things,” I say in a small voice.
Tight clothes. Drinking. Weed. Social media.
God.
“I don’t give a shit if you fucking swear,” Mario says with a wink. “Just stop acting like a brat already.”
“I’m not acting like a brat, you patronizing jerk.” I polish off my cannoli. “Even if you do make damn good cannoli.”
“Starla, baby,” he says calmly in typical older-brother fashion, pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit. “You’ll see Timeo. We don’t know where he’s been or what’s happened.”