Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
My skin is tingling with nerves. With anger. The meal, chosen by my sister off of Lorraine’s menu, is elegant. We begin with Texas Gulf crab cake garnished with avocado and mango salsa, and then on to roasted poblano corn soup with smoked paprika oil. Good old Texas staples and some of my favorites. Too bad they all taste like cardboard on my tongue.
The main course is seared filet mignon—with beef from Bellamy Ranch, of course—with chipotle bearnaise sauce and herb-infused butter served with garlic mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus spears.
I converse with my tablemates, answering their questions in a haze as I force the tender steak down. Again, normally a favorite of mine, but I can’t enjoy it. I do my best to keep a happy face on.
The waitstaff clears the dinner plates, and dessert is laid out—tres leches cake with a bourbon caramel sauce. Once coffee and after-dinner drinks are served, my father wipes his lips with his napkin.
“You ready, sweetheart?” he says to me.
I glance around, looking for Vinnie. His table is near the back. I didn’t even know he was on the guest list. Hell, I didn’t even know he was back in the country.
“Give me a moment,” I say, rising. “I need to…gather my thoughts.”
“Of course.”
People begin talking again, visiting the silent auction tables. I make my rounds, breathing deeply, shaking hands and forcing smiles.
Until I see Vinnie walking toward me.
Alone.
18
VINNIE
Aweek earlier…
The old woman squints at me. “Is that really you, Mario?” She reaches a trembling hand toward me. “My God, you haven’t changed a bit.”
Mario. I do look a lot like him. When he was young, he looked remarkably like me, only he was a couple inches shorter.
“I knew you’d come, Mario.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I never stopped believing.”
She wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her worn dress, her gaze never leaving my face. For a moment, I can only stand there in shock, my mind racing to catch up with what I am hearing. What should have been a simple mission is now turning into something far more complex.
Oh my God. This is why Mario sent me here. This is why he wanted Puzo out of the way. This is why he wanted to work with Agudelo. The territory is nothing.
This woman is why I’m here.
“Serena?” I say.
She nods, tears forming in her sunken eyes.
“I never stopped loving you, Mario. I always knew you’d come back for me.”
Serena Deville. The one woman Mario loved. The woman his father wouldn’t let him have.
The woman who was taken from him but not murdered.
No.
He said what they did to her was far worse.
How long has she been here? She’s older than Agudelo. Did his father bring her here? Has she been kept prisoner all this time? What did they do to her?
Torture her? Rape her? Starve her? Beat her?
My guess is all four and then some.
The thought sends a wave of shocking anger coursing through me, but I stifle it.
I need to focus. She needs help. Now.
“Serena,” I whisper again, stepping further into the room. “I’m not Mario. I’m his… He’s my…” I fumble for words, my mind spinning. The truth would be complicated and hard to believe, especially for someone in such a fragile state. “I need to get you out of here, Serena.”
“Get me out?” she repeats my words, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes, so full of hope a moment ago, seem to flicker with fear. “But how? The door is always locked.”
“I have a key,” I reply. “We will leave this place together.”
“But the guards. And Señor…”
“I’ll deal with them,” I say before she can finish her sentence. I don’t know exactly how yet, but one thing is certain. I won’t leave her here.
Perhaps Daniela can help me again. I’ll get Serena out of here somehow. I have a two-hour window to get her out of the room and to someplace safe without anyone knowing. Agudelo isn’t here, but his staff is. Morehouse is.
I glance around the room and spot an old blanket. I drape it over Serena’s frail form and help her sit up on the bed. She’s weak but manages to hold onto me.
“We need to be quiet and swift,” I tell her.
She nods, clutching onto my hand.
I help her stand and then lift her into my arms. She’s light as a feather. I take her out of the room and into the dimly lit attic. We move as silently as possible towards the concealed staircase leading down.
The house is eerily quiet. The silence seems to stretch out around us, amplifying the softest of sounds—Serena’s strained breaths, my pounding heart. As we creep down the stairs, I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder every now and then.
Just when we reach the landing at the bottom of the stairs, a soft creak echoes from somewhere down the corridor.