Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
How does my family come out of this stronger than ever because, of course, that is the only acceptable conclusion. We cannot merely survive this. We must come out on top, better and stronger.
And if that involves hanging the head of one Josef Alvarez in my study, so be it. I’m going to take great pleasure in paying him back for every bit of what he’s done.
One step at a time. That’s a piece of advice I know my grandfather would hand down were he here. I can’t look too far ahead, for the big picture would overwhelm me. The best I can do now is keep it in mind while taking the first of many steps. The rest will fall into place as time passes.
And what is the first step? That, no one needs to tell me.
I walk down the stairs and through the kitchen. The house is quiet except for the tumult taking place in the guest bedroom. I wonder how long she’ll cry for. I wonder if anyone will hear her. In the kitchen, looking at what would have been our wedding feast—now in foil containers keeping warm on the stove and in the oven, it strikes me as a terrible, twisted joke. Look at us, making all these plans, and for what? None of it was ever real. Not even my bride’s name.
I turn away from it, more important things on my mind. Such as where the hell everyone went.
Because I have questions for them.
They aren’t in the yard, where what’s left of our ceremony lies on the ground. The flower-covered arch is now in ruins, petals strewn across the grass. A patch of blood on the ground is all that remains of my grandfather, whose body the men carried away. He’s somewhere in the house now, I imagine. My head spins at the idea, and I tighten my fists, willing myself to hold it together. This isn’t the time to lose myself in emotion. One day, I will mourn the man who raised me, who gave me a second chance at life—if not my first chance since I doubt my bastard of a father would have given me much of one even if he hadn’t tried to kill me.
Now, however, there are much more important things to be done. I continue searching, finally arriving at the garage. The door is ajar, and the smell of cigarette smoke carries my way on the breeze. I don’t hear anything—no speaking, no accusations. But they’re chain-smoking; that much is for sure. All of them nervous, and rightly so.
I swing the door open, and they all jump as one, all of them. Big, hulking, brutal men, seemingly terrified by the sound of squeaking hinges.
I say nothing at first, stepping into the garage and closing the door behind me. My gaze lands on each of them in turn and lingers while I slowly remove my jacket, hanging it over a folding chair which one of them jumped up from upon my entrance.
I unbutton the collar of my shirt before removing my cuff links slowly and deliberately. Occasionally, I glance around, gauging their reactions. Every passing moment ratchets the tension a bit further, which is precisely the idea. Eventually, one of them will crack under the pressure. Whichever one of them is responsible for the assassination that took place today.
Once my sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, cuff links safe in the jacket pocket, I turn to all of them. “So” I murmur, my gaze sweeping the group. “Which one of you would like to explain how my grandfather was killed on your watch?”
3
ALICIA
Once again, my life has become nothing but a series of brief moments where things get a little better before getting bad all over again. I’m only allowed out of the room for a few minutes at a time to use the bathroom. Then I’m locked back up. Nobody talks to me. Hardly anybody even looks at me. All they do is unlock the door, drag me to the bathroom, and wait outside, then drag me back to the room and lock the door. In all, not a difficult job.
I must be cracking up. How much more of this can a person take before they completely lose their mind?
It’s been days since the wedding—at least three if I’m reading the light outside the window correctly. There’s nothing for me to do but hang around and try to sleep as much as I can. That’s my only way of escaping—when I’m asleep. Not that my dreams are exactly wonderful since they’re generally filled with screaming and blood. Sometimes my blood, sometimes Enzo’s, mostly his grandfather’s. The horror of that day is still so vivid, like sometimes when I close my eyes, I feel like I’m right back there. Realizing in horror that the man was dead, no matter how much Enzo wanted me to save him. Knowing I would have to break his heart. Knowing if the shot had gone even slightly wild, Enzo would have been hit.