Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
He grins. “Do you know why I waited until now to take you?”
“Because my father bought time. My father gave his life for it. For me.” Fuck. It hits me then, and my eyes fill with emotion.
He just watches me. “There’s a second reason.”
“What’s that?”
“Annabel was eighteen at the time of the crash.”
“Your sister.”
“She lived for a full year in that coma even though the doctors told us she’d never come out of it.”
I swallow, things falling into place. Impossible things.
“The next year of your life belongs to me, Cristina.”
“And what happens after that year?” My heart drums against my chest. Why did I ask that?
He studies me and I know he’s choosing his words. “She died a few days after her nineteenth birthday.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“She should have died in that car crash. We should have let her go. But she lived. Well, she breathed on her own, so I suppose medically speaking, she lived.”
“I was nine years old when that happened.” Does he really blame me? Hold me responsible?
“And you’re eighteen now. The same age as Annabel was then. She didn’t get much more time than that.”
“You play with words. Why don’t you just say it? Say what you mean?”
Damian’s eyes harden and shift away from me. His hand fists around the tumbler of whiskey. I realize why when I register the sound just beyond the living room. I think about that night in my father’s study. How I’d heard it then, too, except that wheels sound different on stone than they do on hardwood.
A large man pushing the wheelchair appears from around the corner.
Goose bumps rise along my arms and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I have to force myself to look at him. At the old man in the chair. And when I meet his eyes, the wine glass slips from my hand and shatters.
I look down at it. Wine, red like blood, spills down my legs, staining my dress, seeping into the stone beneath my feet.
I’m not sure who scares me more, the decrepit old man in the chair or the giant pushing it.
The noise doesn’t interrupt or startle Damian. I’m not sure the man’s entrance does either.
The wheelchair comes to a stop across the table and I push my chair back, scraping the stone, needing to get away from him.
“Old man,” Damian says, rising to his feet, hands fisted at his sides. “I told you I’d bring her when I was ready.”
The man in the chair—I know it’s Damian’s father—drags his stony gaze from me to his son. His expression doesn’t change. It doesn’t warm. That hate, it’s still there.
“The year has begun,” he says, shifting watery eyes back to me. “I’m ready.”
13
Damian
I stare at him. I don’t spare a glance for Johnny who will do my father’s bidding without question. I think something’s wrong with him anyway. Has been since he was a kid. Maybe that’s why my father took him and groomed him. He’s stupid enough to do as he’s told without question. I can’t imagine it was guilt he felt over the death of Johnny’s father. A concept like guilt is foreign to men like Benedict Di Santo.
“Well, now that you’re here,” I say, gripping the neck of the whiskey bottle and moving toward the bar to get a glass. “I’ll pour you a drink.” I’d much rather smash the bottle over his head but it’d be a waste of good whiskey.
He watches Cristina. He’s only taken his eyes off her for an instant since he entered.
I don’t look at her. I won’t give anything away.
Pouring a whiskey for my father and refreshing mine because I’m going to need it, I hand one to him, cross into the living room, and have a seat on the couch. My father is now situated between me and Cristina, who is still safely behind the dining table. Although is anyone safe when it comes to him?
I look at her now and what I see in her eyes is terror.
Did she see him that night in her father’s study? I stepped out into the hallway quickly, blocking her view as they wrapped the noose around her father’s neck. But maybe she caught a glimpse of the old man in the wheelchair.
“Stand up,” my father demands of her.
I sip my whiskey, my grip so hard I’m surprised the crystal doesn’t shatter in my hand.
Cristina’s gaze searches for mine which I find curious. Maybe it was my warning about the other monster in this house.
“I said get up,” my father repeats, not even giving her a chance to obey before he summons his goon. “Johnny!” It’s a bark, and Johnny jumps like the dog he is.
“Cristina,” I say from my seat. “Up.”
She swallows. I see it from here. See how her hands tremble as she sets them on the table to support herself. I almost feel sorry for her right now, but she needs to move. Now.