Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
But I was definitely desperate.
Please talk to me. I fired off the text message, even though I knew there would be no reply.
And there wasn’t.
It’d been three days, and now I worried that our relationship was over. He’d disappeared from my life as quickly as he’d come into it. The most passionate relationship of my life had been ruined by my compassion.
Had been ruined for nothing.
Even though I knew the relationship would never be more than a dirty secret, it still hurt to watch it fall apart. He was never going to be my husband or the father of my children. He was always going to be a memory that I would think about from time to time.
But it still sucked.
I miss you.
Every time my phone rang, I hoped it was Bartholomew. It always gave me a jump, a small jolt of excitement. But now five days had come and gone, and I hadn’t heard from him. I stood at the counter in my office and looked at the screen of my lit phone, seeing a number I didn’t recognize.
I always took every call, because it could be a potential client trying to connect with me, so I answered. “This is Laura.”
“Hey, Laura.” I recognized that voice. Could never forget it. “It’s Victor.”
“Yeah, I recognized your voice. What’s up?” I moved to my chair behind my desk.
“I’m not sure what happened, but Catherine got beat up pretty badly.”
My heart somersaulted into my stomach. “What…?”
“We’ve got a lot of shit on our plate right now, and with Lucas still hurt, work has been difficult. I’m not sure if it’s the stress of that…or maybe your sister provoked him… I don’t know.”
“Provoked him?” Was there any justification for barbarism?
“I just thought you should know.”
My ex-husband called me, and my own father didn’t. Or did he even care? “How is she?”
“She’s got a broken arm and a bruised face. She’s home from the hospital and resting.”
“And my father’s response?” I asked, hearing my voice rise because I already knew the answer.
“Like I said…there’s a lot of shit going down right now.”
There was always a lot of shit going down. “Worthless piece of shit. I’m coming down.”
“To do what?”
“I’m not sure. To kill Lucas. To get my sister out of there. To push my father out a window. Maybe all of the above.”
I packed a small bag and headed for the airport. There were several flights to Florence on a daily basis, so I was able to get a last-minute flight and head to the capital of the Renaissance. For a brief second, I assumed I would stay at Bartholomew’s apartment, but then I remembered we weren’t a thing anymore.
I’d forgotten about it in the heat of my anger.
Now the painful feelings returned in a tidal wave, drowning me with regret and sorrow. Bartholomew didn’t beat me to death with his fists or stuff me in an oil drum, but he still crushed me with his cruel punishment. He dropped me without further conversation, ghosted me like I’d never meant anything to him.
God, it hurt.
When I landed in Florence, I grabbed my suitcase from baggage claim and headed outside to grab a taxi. The automatic doors opened, the warm air hit me in the face, and then I walked to the curb as I pulled my luggage with me.
I halted in my tracks when I saw him.
In a black t-shirt and jeans, his signature boots on his feet. He stuck out in the sea of regular people, deadly handsome, tall like a cypress tree from ancient times. His eyes were like bullets—and my face was the target.
I stopped breathing altogether. My body forgot how to function. I was shocked to see him—and a little scared.
I had so many questions, but I didn’t dare ask a single one.
He opened the back door to the SUV at the curb. “Get in.”
The drive was spent in silence.
He kept his gaze out his window. Left the space between us. Acted as if I weren’t there. The driver didn’t ask him any questions. His knees were wide apart, and his elbow rested on the armrest. His fingertips were curled around his mouth. Sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose, so his eyes were impossible to decipher.
I was so nervous I felt like I’d been kidnapped.
We passed through his gate onto his property, and then one of the guys took my bags. The two of us entered his home, and his butler didn’t come to greet us, which made me think Bartholomew had already been staying here.
He took the stairs first, and when he made it to the next landing and realized I wasn’t behind him, he gave me a cold stare.
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
We entered his bedroom, the place where I’d slept beside him for the first time, the terrace doors open like he’d been sitting there before he’d left to pick me up at the airport. It smelled the way it did before, with a hint of his cologne, the scent of clean sheets and fresh flowers.