Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“I’m late, Mom.”
“Let me finish,” she says quickly. “If you were doing things you’re not proud of or anything that put you in danger.”
“Like what?” I say. “I’m giving his sister violin lessons. That’s it.”
“What about last night?” She lowers her gaze for a moment but then makes a point of looking at me sternly. “You snuck out.”
“I didn’t sneak anywhere,” I counter. “I went out to …”
“To see him?”
“Are you saying I’m a hooker or something? That he’s paying me for sex?”
“No, I didn’t say that!” she protests.
“Then what exactly are you saying?” I counter.
“Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re not honest with me?”
“You know everything I know,” I say, pulling away and making for the door.
During the bus ride to work, I try to get Mom’s words out of my head. I can’t count the number of times I check my phone, waiting for a text that never comes. I’m unsure what I want him to say, but something would be nice. Again and again, I try to remind myself he’s just a student’s brother, nothing more, but it feels hollow.
When I finally reach work, I try to plaster my customer-service expression on my face, all smiles, as if my personal life doesn’t exist. As I reach the door, a cold, strong hand curls around my wrist and aggressively tugs me toward the alleyway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MATTEO
In the gym, I hit the bag bare-knuckle, enjoying how the fabric bites my skin and makes my knuckles hurt and bleed. My heart pulses through my body like it’s trying to signal me to slow down, but I can’t. I won’t. Slowing down means thinking, and my thoughts keep returning to her. To the kiss. To how hot and ready she felt.
Finally, though, I can’t take it anymore. I stumble away from the bag, almost collapsing, my chest heaving as I use my teeth to strip off one of my gloves. Tearing off the second one, I sit down, picking up my phone as I try to think of something to text Bella.
I need to tell her that last night was a mistake. Even if that’s a lie—even if a mistake is the last thing it feels like—I need to end this. If the shit with the Gallos goes wrong, it could mean another war. I can’t have attachments in that case. I can’t risk her life.
A text from her is waiting for me when I take a break.
Something bad just happened. I was walking to work, and a man dragged me into the alleyway. He pushed me against the wall and said some terrifying things. He wanted me to tell you that they know where I live. He wanted me to tell you that if you even think about doing anything, they will hurt me.
I call her immediately, but she rejects it.
I’m in the hospital. My mom says I shouldn’t speak to you.
Who was this man? I type, my hands trembling, my skull feeling like it’s splitting down the middle.
I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name.
What did he look like? Did he have an accent? Any tattoos?
I don’t remember, she replies. It all happened so fast, but he insisted that you back off. He said if you don’t, that next time … I can’t even type it. He basically said he and his friends would “make use” of me, if you get my meaning.
My blood turns to ice as I remember what Elio said about the Gallos’ big plans for their brothels earlier. I try to call Bella again, but she rejects it.
Please stop calling.
You need to tell me what hospital you’re at, I reply.
I can’t do that. My mom will freak.
What do YOU want to do?
There’s a long delay, which makes my mind work overtime as I try to figure out the best course of action. My instincts tell me to burn, burn, burn the fuckers—to wipe every Gallo off the face of the goddamn planet. To kill and keep killing until there’s nobody left to make Bella feel small.
I think we shouldn’t see each other for a little while. Tell Sofia I’m sorry, but she should find another teacher.
I move my thumb to the call button again, but do I have the right to harass her now? This isn’t a question of violin lessons, kissing, closeness, or any of that. This is life or death. I press the button, which gets a quicker rejection this time.
I’ve made myself clear.
Part of me hopes this is her mom and her friend talking through her. It’s a cruel, low, frankly pathetic thought to have—this eagerness for it not to be her who hates me. Yet it’s there all the same.
Grinding my teeth, I decide I’ll have to do something crazy: tell her via text, not all of it, but she needs to know at least some.