Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 73533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
The thing about the beatings, I can’t begin to wrap my mind around that. His family is fucked up, their relationships enmeshed and unhealthy. But that? A father having one son beat the other? A father turning brother against brother and in that way? I just can’t understand. I can’t process.
But it’s what he said last that I keep coming back to.
Because I love you.
He loves me. And I feel a strange joy knowing it.
Without thinking, I reach to scratch my arm. It’s itchy and painful, and I think Damian may be right that it’s infected. But it’s not a spider bite.
Because I love you.
My phone buzzes under my pillow. He left in such a hurry he must not have remembered to take it from me. I’m sure he will tomorrow, but for now, I sit up, squinting my eyes as they adjust so I can read the text.
Liam: Put on the news.
Me: What?
Liam: Just turn on the TV.
I look around for the remote and see it on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. Reaching over, I grab it and push the power button.
CNN comes on and I watch as a news anchor speaks while the headline ticker scrolls across the bottom of the screen. Red lights flash and the aerial image shifts as the helicopter with the camera circles the fire fighters battling the fire on a loaded container ship.
The TV is muted so I switch on the lamp beside the bed in order to find the volume button and turn it up.
The scene has changed to a different location where a fire rages on board another ship.
I drop the remote and call Liam who picks up on the first ring.
“What’s going on?”
“Those are Damian’s ships. Three different ports.”
Something on the TV explodes and I gasp.
“Philadelphia, New York, and Miami were hit. I’m guessing Genoa’s hit too. Possibly Rotterdam.”
I hear him typing madly.
“I don’t understand. His ships?”
“His whole fleet is under attack.”
Just then, the door smashes open, and a soldier I don’t recognize enters.
I let out a little scream, dropping my phone as he rushes into the room, machine gun slung over his shoulder. He holds out his phone to me.
“Cristina.”
I hear Damian’s voice.
“What’s going on?” I ask, taking the phone.
“We’re under attack. You need to leave the penthouse now. No time to pack anything. Just go. Now.”
“What? Where? And where are you?”
“I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I hear sirens in the background as he disconnects the call.
“We need to go,” the soldier says and stands at the door.
“I need to get dressed.”
“No time.”
He pushes the covers off. I’m wearing a tank top that comes to the tops of my thighs. That’s all.
I grab the robe as he looks down and sees that I’m barefoot.
“There,” I say, pointing at my boots. He hands them to me, and I slip my sockless feet inside. I’ve barely tied the robe when he takes my arm and rushes me through the hall, into another room where more soldiers wait.
We climb into what appears to be a service elevator and I ride down with three heavily armed men.
“I forgot my phone!” I say, realizing it only after the elevator starts moving.
“We can’t go back,” he says.
He takes hold of my arm again and, when the elevator doors open, we’re not in the elegant front lobby but at the back of the building. We rush through what must be storage units. I shudder when we step outside because the thin robe and nightie offer no protection against the cold.
The soldier hurries me out onto a receiving area where a dark SUV waits, engine running. Another soldier steps forward as we near the end of the raised platform. I’m handed off from one to the other as if I’m a thing and lifted off my feet to be placed into the back of the SUV. We leave the soldier who brought me down and another one climbs in beside me. The driver takes off before he’s even closed the door.
“I need your phone. I need to call Damian.”
“Damian’s busy. He’ll call you when he can.”
“Where are we going?” I ask frantically.
“Safehouse.”
“Where?”
He doesn’t answer, but when I shiver, he takes off his jacket and puts it over my shoulders.
“Thank you.”
He nods.
I watch out the window as we drive out of the city and head north. I think for a minute he’s taking me back to the main house Upstate, but then we take a turn, and I realize where we’re going.
I’m surprised.
Shocked, actually.
My guess is confirmed not twenty minutes later as we drive through the gates of the house I lived in for the first ten years of my life.
It takes me a moment to process the emotions that come up as I look around the gardens and the large brick mansion, while the driver navigates the circular drive. It’s well maintained. The shrubs in the garden, which my mother kept in an English style, are bigger, but almost the same as when I was little. I can just see our swing set and the treehouse our father had built for Scott and me. The last time I climbed into it was just after the accident.