Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“I had all of them tuned yesterday. You mentioned you wanted them all done when you were here.”
“That’s great. Thanks, Danny.”
“You’re welcome, my—” I press the OFF button before she finishes.
“Would you like to listen to some music?” I ask Alessia. She turns red-rimmed eyes to me, and my chest tightens. “Okay,” I say, not waiting for her answer. On the media screen, I find what I hope will be a soothing album and press PLAY. The sound of acoustic guitars fills the car, and I relax a little. We have a long drive ahead.
“Who is this?” Alessia asks.
“A singer-songwriter called Ben Howard.”
She stares at the screen for a moment, then goes back to gazing out the window.
I reflect on all my past interactions with Alessia in light of what she’s told me today. Now I understand why she’s been so reticent around me, and my heart is leaden. In my fantasies I’d imagined that when I was finally alone with her, she would be laughing and carefree, gazing at me with adoring doe eyes. The reality is very different.
Very. Different.
And yet…I don’t mind. I want to be with her.
I want her safe.
I want her….
That’s the truth.
I’ve never felt like this before.
Everything has happened so fast. And I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. But I know I can’t abandon her to those lowlifes. I want to protect her.
How chivalrous.
My thoughts take a darker turn as I dwell on morbid fantasies of what she might have had to endure and of what she might have seen. This young woman in the hands of those monsters.
Fuck. I grip the steering wheel tighter as anger surges like sulfuric acid in my gut.
If I ever get hold of those men…
My rage is murderous.
What have they done to her? I want to know.
No. I don’t want to know.
I do.
I don’t.
I glance at the dashboard.
Shit. I’m speeding.
Slow the fuck down, mate.
I ease my foot off the accelerator.
Steady.
I take a deep, cleansing breath.
Calm down.
I want to ask her what she’s endured. What she’s seen. But now is not the right time. All my plans, all my fantasies will be for nothing if she can’t bear to be with a man…any man.
And I realize that I can’t touch her.
Fuck.
* * *
Alessia tries but fails to stem her tears. She’s dazed, drowning in her emotions.
Her fear.
Her hope.
Her despair.
Can she trust the man sitting beside her? She has placed herself in his hands. Willingly. And she’s done that before—with Dante—and that didn’t turn out so well.
She doesn’t know Mister Maxim. Not really. He’s shown her nothing but kindness since she met him—and what he’s done for Magda is beyond what any reasonable man could be expected to do. Until she met Maxim, Magda had been the only person in England whom Alessia trusted. She had saved Alessia’s life. She had taken her in, fed and clothed her, and found her work, through a network of Polish women who live in West London and help each other.
And now Alessia is traveling miles and miles from that place of refuge. Magda has reassured her that Mrs. Kingsbury’s and Mrs. Goode’s houses would be covered by one of the other girls while Alessia is away.
How long will she be gone?
And where is the Mister taking her?
She tenses. Perhaps Dante is following them?
She tightens her arms around her body. Thinking of Dante reminds her of her nightmare journey to England. She doesn’t want to think about that. She never wants to think about it again. But it haunts her in moments of quiet and in her nightmares. What’s become of Bleriana, Vlora, Dorina, and the other girls?
Please let them have escaped, too.
Bleriana was only seventeen, the youngest of the girls.
Alessia shudders. The song on the car stereo is about living in the confines of fear. Alessia squeezes her eyes shut. Her stomach constricts with fear, the fear she’s been living with for so long, and her tears continue to fall.
* * *
We pull in to the Gordano Services on the M5 just after 10:00 P.M. I’m hungry in spite of the cheese sandwich Magda made for me back in Brentford. Alessia is asleep. I wait for a moment to see if she’ll wake now that the car has come to a standstill. Under the glow from the halogen lights in the car park, she looks serene and ethereal—the curve of her translucent cheeks, her dark lashes splayed out above them, and the stray lock of hair from her plait that curls beneath her chin. I contemplate letting her sleep but decide I can’t leave her alone in the car.
“Alessia,” I whisper, and her name is a prayer. I’m tempted to stroke her cheek, but I resist and whisper her name once more. She wakes with a gasp and a wide-eyed start, looking frantically around her. When her eyes meet mine, she stills.