Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘Relieved?’ I prompt, because that’s how I’m feeling. So damn relieved.
‘Maybe.’ He looks up to the ceiling, as do I. ‘I’ve got it, Dad.’ he says quietly, squeezing my hand. ‘I found it for you and Mum.’
My eyes sting from quick-building tears, and I move into Becker’s side, hugging his arm. ‘He’ll be so proud of you.’
Becker looks down at me, a little vacant. ‘I wish I could see his face,’ he admits. ‘I wish I could give it to him.’
‘He’ll be watching.’ I smile and reach up to kiss his cheek. ‘Wherever he is, he’ll be watching.’ I discreetly brush away the tear that escapes my right eye. But amid my sadness, I’m so happy I followed him to Rome so I could share this with him. And now, I know he’s glad I’m here.
Bang!
We both jump from our moment, and before I can grasp what that noise was or what’s going on, I’m shoved violently aside, and I lose my grip of Becker’s arm. The ground grows closer to my face, my eyes closing and my hands coming up to break my fall. I hit the deck hard, but I still hear the sound of Becker crashing to the concrete too, followed by a crack of lightning.
‘Fuck.’ His yell is breathy, strained, and I spin around, ignoring the searing pain that’s cutting through my shoulder. A rumble of thunder practically makes the ground shake, and another flash of lightning illuminates the sky and shines light on the horrid scene before me.
Becker’s on his back, grappling with some hands around his neck. ‘No!’ I scream, seeing Brent holding him down by a thick metal chain across his throat.
‘Stay away, Eleanor,’ Becker coughs over his urgent words, his legs kicking out as he gasps for air and fights Brent’s hold.
Oh my God, he’s going to kill him! I’m up from the floor like lightning, not prepared to leave him when he’s pinned down, helpless. I throw myself on Brent’s back, ripping at his hair, clawing like a madwoman, anything to hamper him.
‘Eleanor!’ Becker yells, just as an elbow comes up and cracks me clean on the cheekbone. Stars jump into my vision, my head instantly spinning. My poor body receives another punishing clout, the air knocked from my lungs. But I force myself up again, adrenalin taking over.
Brent’s momentary release of the chain to crack me one gives Becker the break he needs, and he moves fast, flipping his body over and getting Brent under him. He grabs the nearby hammer and raises it in the air. ‘You twisted fuck!’ he bellows, holding Brent down by the neck with one hand and brandishing the hammer with his other. ‘You sick, crazy fucker. For a fucking sculpture? You’d kill for a fucking sculpture?’
‘You’re the one waving the fucking hammer in my face, Hunt.’
Becker throws the hammer aside, draws back his fist, and throws it into Brent’s face on a roar. I wince at the chilling sound of a nose breaking. ‘It fucking ends here!’ Another accurate punch lands on Brent’s nose, and this time blood splatters everywhere. Becker looks like the crazy one. He’s lost his rag, and he doesn’t look like he’ll find it anytime soon. It gets to the point that I can’t distinguish between the lightning bolts and the connections of Becker’s fist to Brent’s face.
Becker’s arms pull back once more, and I jump up, running to him, unable to bear any more. ‘Becker, stop.’ I grab his arm to halt it sailing forward into Brent’s face again. My Becker is many things, but I won’t let him add murderer to his list. ‘Enough!’
His body heaves and rolls, while Brent looks up at him with big, fearful eyes. He comprehends Becker’s rage. He’s pushed him over the edge, the one he’s been balancing on for so many years. ‘Okay,’ Brent says, watching Becker cautiously. ‘It finishes here. Enough damage has been done.’
‘Your father killed my parents, Wilson. There’s nothing I can do to get payback. Not even killing you would make me feel better.’
Brent breathes in deeply, fixing Becker with sure eyes. ‘My father wasn’t a murderer, Hunt. You know that. They were accidents.’
‘And your father was involved!’ Becker lifts Brent and smashes him down on the concrete. ‘Your family will never take anything from me again, do you understand? It’s done!’
‘Done,’ Brent agrees, obviously panicked. ‘It’s done.’
‘You don’t get the sculpture,’ Becker tells him on a snarl.
‘You win,’ Brent relents.
‘I always fucking win.’
Brent lets out an amused puff of laughter, maybe tinged with a hint of nervousness, too. ‘I’m too old for this shit.’
Relief floods me as I watch Becker’s grip peel slowly away from Brent’s neck, his exhausted body lifting equally as slowly, his eyes never leaving his nemesis. ‘I never want to look at you again, Wilson. You won’t walk away next time, I swear.’