Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
But it would be a mistake to confide in him. There’s more to Mario than meets the eye. And I can’t be certain he won’t go running right to Marcello if I let anything slip about my plans or my true intentions while I’m locked in this fucked-up mansion.
So I lie. “I accidentally hit a mirror when I was working out.”
He pauses and then smiles. “Well, I guess we’ll have to change up the placement of the racks then.”
Good. He believes my lie. Just like Mom always said. If you want people to believe your white lie, tell mostly the truth, then tweak only tiny details, and that’s the part where they know I was angry and did it on purpose. Because I don’t want to show any kind of weakness to these people. Even if it is meek old Mario. He knows how bad Marcello is, and it doesn’t even faze him, which means he’s just as bad. He’s just pretending not to be to fool me into thinking I’m safe.
But I will never, ever be safe around these men.
These mobsters will do anything they can to get what they want.
But am I really what Marcello wants? Or am I merely a toy to play with? A girl to ruin? Another one on his hit list?
And why do I even care?
I shrug off my emotions as Mario finishes wrapping my wound. “Done.” He puts tape on top to seal it in place. “Leave this on for a couple of days. Your hand should be good as new.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I take my hand off the table.
“So, did you need anything else?” he asks, and when I bite my lip, he suddenly has an epiphany. “Oh, yes! Tea.” He chuckles as he gets up from his seat. “I completely forgot.”
He heads to the kitchen counter again and puts on the water, along with two mugs which he places on the table. “I’ll have one too then.”
I smile at him. “You’re very kind,” I say, and I pause. “Unlike Marcello.”
Mario’s lips part, but it takes him a while to reply. “Marcello can be kind. When he needs to be.” He sighs. “He doesn’t mean to be cruel. It’s just … that it’s required of him. A man in his position has no choice but to assert authority.”
“Because choosing not to would lead to resistance,” I add.
“Right,” he says.
“But is he ever so cruel to you?” I ask, gazing up at him.
He looks puzzled and unsure of how to answer.
“Marcello does what he needs to do to get his point across,” Mario says, clearing his throat.
“So he treats you the same way he treats me?” I raise my brow. “Why do I find that hard to believe?” I mutter under my breath.
The water stops boiling, and Mario turns around to pour it into the cups, making the tea in silence as though he doesn’t know what to do. His hands rest on the counter even though the tea he made is already done. Still, he won’t budge.
“Marcello wasn’t always this way. A long time ago, he was kind. Gentle. A true giant among men.” He sighs out loud as he places the cups of tea on the table. “But life can be so cruel it turns good men mad.”
Marcello? Good? Kind?
I can’t imagine a man like him ever being that way. If it is true, then something horrible must’ve happened. And if Mario can tell me what it is, maybe I can use it to my advantage.
Is that evil? Yeah, maybe. But so is keeping me locked up here.
“What happened to Marcello? If I may ask,” I pry, leaning toward Mario as he sits down to drink his tea.
He pauses right before he takes a sip. “I … I’m not allowed to disclose.”
I pout. “If I know, I may be able to understand Marcello a little better. Doesn’t he need some kindness in his life?”
Mario’s face scrunches up, and I can almost see the gears grinding in his head.
Then he shakes his head and closes his eyes. “No, no, absolutely not. I’m sorry. As much as I would like to tell you more about him, he wouldn’t take kindly to it.”
“So he forbids you from doing and saying what you want, is that it?” I ask.
Mario jolts up from his chair with agitation in his movements.
“That’s not it. I—”
“You care for him, but he doesn’t care about you,” I interject, trying to put pressure on him. “Why do you protect him?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s—”
“You love him, but he won’t even let you get close anymore,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s the only way I can get underneath his skin.
His eyes trail off as he struggles to stay put.
“I … I …” he mutters. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”