Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Give him back!”
Luca’s devilish grin twisted into a pained look that broke my heart. He leaned forward, grabbing his side. Blood soaked through his shirt and spilled onto the pavement.
“You did this,” he choked out between breaths.
He staggered toward me and pushed up his shirt, revealing his chiseled abdomen. Blood coated his olive skin, a gash in his right side. A knife slipped from his grasp and bounced a few times before it landed in front of me.
As I bent down, I noticed the S looked like a snake wrapping around the silver handle. The Salvatore crest. Luca carried the knife with him at all times. It was a gift from his grandfather, the last thing he’d given Luca before he passed away.
“Pick it up,” Luca ordered.
Hunched in front of the knife, I glanced up at him. “Why?”
He hissed as more blood poured out of the wound, his eyes shut as he took another breath. “You know why.”
I bent down, feeling the knife’s weight in my hand. As I turned it over and studied the snake handle, blood coated my palm and slid down my wrist. The scent of iron penetrated the air like perfume. I closed my eyes, reminding myself this wasn’t real. Any minute, I would wake up.
“Open your eyes, Alex,” Luca said in a menacing tone. “Face what you’ve done.”
No, please don’t make me.
“Open them,” he snapped.
As if I were under his spell, I followed his command.
“Look at me,” Luca said through clenched teeth, still clutching his right side. “Look at what you did.”
I glanced up at the knife wound on his tanned, muscular stomach. It stood out against the rest of his scars—the fresh blood making his skin glisten crimson.
“No,” I cried out. “No, I couldn’t. I would never hurt you.”
His jaw ticked. “But you did.”
I shook my head in disbelief, and my eyes dropped to the knife. Even covered in blood, I could see the inscription in the metal perfectly.
Il sangue non e acqua.
An Italian phrase that translated to blood is not water. In English, it was the same as saying blood is thicker than water. Luca’s grandfather and father had instilled this phrase in the boys. No one could penetrate their cold exteriors. The Salvatores had an unbreakable bond.
“You’re not real,” I whispered.
“I’m real, baby.” He bent down in front of me and slid his warm fingers beneath my chin. “Do you remember what you did?”
A sob escaped my throat. “Yes.”
Blood rushed through my veins, going straight to my head as the past came crashing into the present. The events of that night flashed before my eyes. We argued about Aiden’s disappearance, and I grabbed the knife from his back pocket. I stabbed him in the stomach. Luca dropped to his knees, clutching his side as a pool of blood enveloped him.
I drew a breath from between my teeth, attempting to still my racing heart. “Are you going to kill me?”
Luca gave me a cruel smirk and laughed. “Death is too kind.”
My legs wobbled, unable to hold my weight anymore, and I fell sideways onto the pavement. Someone grabbed my elbow, lifted me from the ground, and hooked their arm around me. Luca muttered something. His words muffled over the ringing in my ears. My pulse pounded with the same ferocity as the beating at the base of my skull.
“I got you,” Marcello said before I lost consciousness.
My eyes shot open, my heart thumping as a surge of emotions ripped into my chest. I stared up at the ceiling, knowing I had to escape this prison before Luca could hurt me. Was it all a dream? Or did those assholes drug me, chase me, and force me to face the truth? Either way, I needed to leave the estate.
I was in danger.
Pressing my palm to the mattress, I pushed myself up, and my fingers grazed something wet and thick. I raised my hand and inspected the sticky substance. It was too dark to see clearly. As I ran my hand over the soaked sheets, my fingers brushed a hard surface.
What the hell?
I grabbed the cold metal and lifted the knife in disbelief, screwing my eyes shut. “Not real.”
When I opened my eyes, I still had the knife in my hand, and a cold substance dripped from it. Blood.
No.
Dropping the knife, I slid off the bed and rushed into the bathroom. I flicked on the light, moved in front of the long mirror, and screamed at the blood coating my fingers. I turned on the water and scrubbed my hands together. Streams of blood dripped from my fingers, staining the white porcelain. There was so much blood. Too much.
You’re imagining it.
Not real.
Adding soap to the mix, I cleansed myself of this nightmare. My skin burned by the time I finished washing away the past. I threw cold water on my face and stared in the mirror as the wet beads slid down my cheeks.