Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I hadn’t known he’d played basketball. Or that he knew how to smile.
It must’ve been taken in high school. He looked younger, of course, but also like the weight he currently carried hadn’t yet settled on his shoulders. His dad would’ve been alive back then, and while Massimo probably had more knowledge of his father’s operation than I did of mine, he likely hadn’t been indoctrinated into that lifestyle yet.
It made me wonder how he would’ve turned out if he’d been born into a normal family that wasn’t part of the underworld.
I poked through the rest of the box. There were a few trophies, including one for basketball. If Massimo had played, Carmine probably had too, since he was even taller. But the box seemed to only contain Massimo’s things.
I found a folder and rifled through it. There were a few reports, complete with the grades. He’d been a good student—that part didn’t surprise me. And I found a picture of him and a young Stefano in front of a red muscle car. I wondered if it had belonged to their family or if they’d just been admiring it.
Sifting through the other stuff, I didn’t find much else. At the very bottom of the crate was a heavy book. It was hardcover, but there was no dust jacket. The cover almost felt like material. I lifted it out, wanting to know what book was important enough for Massimo to keep, but the faint gold letters on the cover proclaimed that it was about the rise and fall of the Roman empire.
I frowned. Though I didn’t know my fiancé as well as I should, he’d never struck me as a history buff.
I balanced the book on the crate, wondering if he’d actually read it. The spine was thick—I couldn’t imagine anyone reading anything that lengthy. I opened it and flipped through a few pages—and stopped dead.
The inside of the book was hollowed out in a neatly cut rectangle. Inside was a piece of cloth.
My heart rate increased. Whatever this was had been hidden purposefully. I felt guilty, as if I’d been snooping. Which I had, I supposed, but I’d honestly thought that there wasn’t anything important in the crate.
I lifted the fabric out. It was filthy, and my first thought was that it was an old rag. But as I smoothed it out, I saw that it was some kind of floral fabric. It was so stained that it was hard to tell what color it had originally been. Maybe a kind of a butter yellow? But the yellow had streaks of reddish-brown dirt on it, ruining the flowers that must have once been pretty.
One side of the cloth was folded over on itself and hemmed. Its curves and reminded me of something. Then it hit me—it reminded me of the neckline of the teddy I’d worn last night. Had this cloth originally been women’s clothing?
As soon as that thought hit, another one did, making my stomach drop. I leaned in closer, examining the stains on the fabric. Were they bloodstains?
Dropping the fabric, I stepped back. The heavy book overbalanced and fell back into the crate, the cover snapping shut.
The scrap of cloth settled on the floor, and I stared at it with a sick feeling in my stomach. If it was blood, whose had it been? And why had Massimo kept it? He’d not only kept it, he’d hidden it.
Dark possibilities danced in and out of my mind, but I rejected them as best I could. Taking a deep breath, I retrieved the cloth. When I reached for the book, I saw the corner of a page sticking out. It must’ve gotten torn when the book fell. As I opened the book to put the cloth back, I saw that it wasn’t a page from the book at all, but a piece of paper.
If anything, it looked older and dirtier than the piece of fabric. Part of it was torn, and there were a few lines of cursive on it in faded blue ink.
Holding the paper by the corner, I raised it up, trying to read the writing. The words were faint and scrawled in a messy handwriting, but I was able to read them.
Massimo,
You can stop this.
Please.
- C
My mind reeled as my body went into autopilot. I shoved the note and the fabric back into the book and buried it deep at the bottom of the crate.
The words on the note—they sounded so desperate to me. And they’d been hastily written, as if the person who wrote them didn’t have much time.
What had happened to her? At least I assumed it was a woman from both the handwriting and the scrap of a dress.
Had Massimo helped her?
My stomach ached as I scrambled to cover my tracks, putting everything back where I’d found it. Then I stumbled down the stairs, not bothering to be quiet. I thought about finding Stefano, but he’d know something was bothering me as soon as he saw me. And I couldn’t ask him about this. I just couldn’t. He probably wouldn’t know what it was—but what if he did? Would there be some innocent explanation?