Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
I now know the layout of the grounds, where they’ve positioned surveillance cameras, and the holes in security.
My brother is a fucking idiot.
Sicario Number Two is my inside man, only he doesn’t know it. He’s let me roam around the house—some. Well, as long as he’s at my side. Nevertheless, I’ve learned every fucking inch of this gorgeous villa.
I might appreciate it more if it wasn’t my prison. The place is a winding maze of staircases for the servants to wander sight unseen, and the wide hallways allow a lot of light to filter inside the rooms.
“Ya es hora,” Sicario Number Two growls almost apologetically at exactly twelve-thirty. It’s time for lunch, and the Sicario brothers get thirty-five minutes to eat, shit, and smoke, while I get to sit locked in my room, twiddling my fucking thumbs, and thinking about Dix.
Is he trying to find me? Has he given up on me? He probably assumes that I want to break up with him, and he’s already found someone else to warm his bed. I hope not, but even if that’s true, I have my own business back in America, and that business is revenge.
I turn to Sicario Number Two and fan my face. “It’s hot in here. Do you mind if I keep the balcony doors open?”
He looks around the room suspiciously, uneasiness with my request heavy on his shoulders. “That’s not a good idea.”
I laugh and kick out one leg, and then the other to show off my four-inch stilettos. “You really think I’m going to risk these shoes by jumping off the balcony? I’ll break my legs if I try, which makes your job a hell of a lot easier.”
I can see the moment he gives in. He glances down at his watch, seeing minutes of his lunch break pass by while he bullshits with me. “Okay. Fine. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Of course not,” I assure him and fall on my bed, pretending to pout as he turns off the alarm on that particular door and stalks back across the room.
“Enjoy your lunch,” I say with a sweet smile.
His expression softens. “Gracias.”
When the door closes behind him, I set my timer for ninety seconds, my heart racing as I watch every second tick by. I have to wait to make sure no one comes back, and as soon as the timer hits zero, I kick off my shoes and change into a pair of form-fitting jeans and crisp black sneakers I’ve already worn twice to break them in for this very moment.
I pull a forest green t-shirt over my head and grab my leather duffel bag and then shove it out the balcony door. I grab my gym bag and ease out the bedroom door and down the hall to the unused guest room with the unlocked patio door that leads to a small set of stairs.
To the right, I can hear a group of men chatting on their cigarette break, and a tickle of a smile teases my lips because I’m sure Sicario Number Two put them up to it, having seen through my transparent request to open the door.
You’re good. You got this, I tell myself as I creep down the stairs, one at a time. I listen carefully to everything happening all around me.
But no alarms sound, and no one comes running, so I make it to the bottom of the cement stairs and suck in a deep, satisfying breath.
This is just the first step of my escape, but it feels like a big fucking step. I take a few more, and then a few more, until I’m about twenty feet from the long rows of trees and bushes that line the long driveway.
It’s a sunny day, but the overgrown shrubs and my dark attire provides just enough cover so that once I make it there, I’ll be even closer to freedom.
The protection of the trees feels like a sanctuary, and I allow a few seconds to catch my breath. Then I strap the bag across my chest before I break out into a full run, arms and legs pumping like I’m on the treadmill running from my life, my problems. Hell, my family.
I keep running, even though my lungs burn, and my muscles protect the exertion. I run until I find the small public access road only used by road workers and domestic staff, and the occasional cabbie.
My heart pounds so loud and so fast I barely hear the car that speeds up the road. I turn with a gasp and identify the little yellow hatchback as a taxi and shoot my arm straight up in the air.
I keep looking over my shoulder in search of sicarios or henchman or bodyguards chasing me down, but the coast is blessedly clear. When the cab comes to a stop, I jump in the back without hesitation.