Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“That’s what we do.”
“And when are the men coming, huh?”
Perico shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly. You don’t know. Because they aren’t.” I extract myself from him and walk away, wiping my face. “I want to be alone for a little while, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, of course.” He hesitates at the door. “But please, loulou. Don’t go to the window.”
“I won’t.”
Perico leaves and the door clicks shut behind him. I head into the bathroom and turn on the water in the large clawfoot tub. It runs out steamy hot, and soon moisture clings to the old tile floors. I strip down and climb inside, lower myself beneath the water line, and let out a long sigh. Baths, endless baths, my only connection to the ocean anymore. A sad, weak connection, but still. It’s water.
Three months in this house. Three months on this island. I came here for my father’s birthday three months ago and thought it would be a short trip—a week at most then back home to LA and my friends. Papa gave me the usual shit, my brothers ignored me for the most part, and when they did talk, it was to tell me how American I am and how disappointed in me they are, until one afternoon two days into my visit, my brothers and my father went on a fishing trip and never came back.
I’m told the explosion was felt all over the island.
I didn’t feel a thing when my family and everyone working on that yacht were vaporized.
Nobody knows how the bomb got on board. My father obsessively vetted the yacht’s staff, and yet somehow the boat exploded anyway. Perico tells me there was nothing left to identify any of the bodies, only pieces of them scattered in the water for the fish and the sharks, flesh torn to shreds.
One moment, I’m the hated black sheep of my family, and the next I’m the only living heir of the most powerful Greek mafia family in history.
The Sicilians said it was them and nobody disputes it. The crime lords have been feuding with the Sicilian Valverde Famiglia for years now, a bloody and ugly war over drug-smuggling turf spread out across Europe and even into the United States. The Valverdes are mainly headquartered in New York, but they keep homes and bases of operations all over the world, including their native island.
I splash water on my face to rinse away the tears.
For years I’ve been set off to the side, the forgotten youngest daughter. I kept out of mafia politics and stayed in America where I tried to have a life. My father sent me money and made sure his American associates kept an eye on me, but mostly I was left alone. I went to college, got a marketing degree, and found a job working for a law firm. I made friends, rented an apartment, had a life.
That’s all gone now. I wonder if my landlord evicted me yet and what he’ll do with all my stuff.
There’s been no communication in or out, per Perico’s orders. He knows, and I know, that I’m a target, a massive target, and my only hope is that the crime lords get their shit together and stop fighting long enough to let me marry one of their asshole sons.
It’s a nightmare on every level possible.
I stay in the tub until the water turns tepid. I stand and rinse off, and as I get out and wrap a towel around myself, there’s a noise downstairs. A loud bang, followed by a shout of pain, and another loud bang.
Popping, like fireworks going off.
My stomach sinks.
No, this can’t be happening, not right now. I finally decided to go forward with a marriage—and now they’re coming for me?
I grab a robe and throw it on. I tighten it and hurry out of the bathroom. I grab my go bag from under the bed—it’s filled with clothes, money, passports, food and water—and start to get dressed. I manage to pull on underwear, jeans, and a tank top before Perico bursts into the room.
He’s splattered with blood.
“Perico,” I say, going to him, and he runs over, grabbing my shoulders.
“We have to go,” he says in Greek, almost too fast for me to follow. “Loulou, grab your things, we must escape.”
“What’s happening? Who is it, the crime lords?”
“No, loulou, it’s not them.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Listen to me,” he says, tone harsh, and his fingers dig into my arms. “You’re all that’s left of the Florakis. If you die, the association dies with you, and the Greek crime lords go back to their petty squabbles and infighting. It’ll be hundreds of years before we can organize like this again. Greece can be strong, loulou, if you can be.”
I shake my head, fear lancing down into my guts. “Perico—”
“Grab your bag. Grab it now and run!”