Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
I get in, she gets in, and my back immediately knocks against the door as her driver slams his foot on the gas, and the car blazes off like we're practicing for the next Formula One race.
My heart leaps into my throat as we overtake three vehicles in the past five seconds. What the heck? Why bother abducting me when her driver clearly means to kill us before the next stoplight?
My almost-victim-turned-captor raises a brow when she sees my white-knuckled grip on the roof handle. "You have no reason to worry, bambina—-"
I mentally beg to differ, with the traffic lights having just turned red, which her driver then interprets as an encouragement to 'go faster' instead of 'stop'.
"Francisco is a very good driver."
We barely escape crashing into a ten-freaking-wheeler truck from an intersecting lane, and all eighteen years of my life flash before my eyes.
"And anyway, it won't be long before we reach the airport—-"
I think I must've misheard her or something. Did she just say—-
"Sì, bambina. You did not hear incorrectly, and we are indeed heading to the airport."
It's bad enough that I've been abducted, but why does my abductor have to be clairvoyant as well...just like the witch I fear her to be?
"If it makes you feel more comfortable, we're not leaving the country. We just need to get out of New York, and the sooner, the better, too."
I know there's a good chance she won't care to answer, but I ask it anyway. "Why?"
"Because I'm not in charge here."
She looks at me meaningfully when she says this, and I guess that only means one thing, doesn't it?
Wherever she's taking me, it's a place where the old lady's in charge—-and I might as well kiss my chances of escaping goodbye.
"You have a very expressive face, bambina."
The crafty sound of the other woman's voice reminds me of witches with an appetite for the tender hearts of virgins...like yours truly (the virgin part, I mean, since I've always been more the thorny than tender type).
"I know you have no reason to trust me, but surely there's no harm if you listen to what I have to say first?"
I WARN MYSELF AGAINST believing anything she says, but by the time she's done talking, I end up questioning her sanity instead. Is she really saying what I think she's saying? Does she really expect me to believe that everything that happened today...is nothing but an elaborate scheme to determine if I'm a 'decent' human being?
"You obviously don't believe me," she observes, "but maybe you'll change your mind if you see this..."
Holy shit.
I panic the moment I see the old lady reach into her purse.
"Here..."
My threatens to leap out of my chest, but instead of pointing a gun to my head like I expected her to do—-
The old lady hands me a photo instead.
Oh.
I guess I was being a little paranoid back there, and...whoa. I can't remember the last time I held an actual printed photo in my hands, and—-
No.
My throat tightens when I realize whose faces I'm staring at. The woman on the left is obviously the old lady from years back...while the couple next to her can only be my parents.
There's Dad, with his usual goofy grin, and Mom, whose chagrined expression may have something to do with the fact that toddler-me in the picture was busy chewing on the hem of her skirt.
"I'm so very sorry for your loss."
My gaze jerks back to the old lady at her words. I know I can be fooling myself here, but the gruff note of sympathy in her voice doesn't sound like a lie.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
"Mi dispiace tantissimo..."
I don't speak a single word of Italian, but I know an apology when I hear it.
"I did not mean to make you think I am your grandmother by blood."
"No, of course not." It takes more effort than I expected to force myself to smile and shrug off my disappointment.
"But we are still related, to a point—-"
I don't want her pity, and I'm already shaking my head even before she's done speaking. "You don't need to lie."
"—-because you've been betrothed to my grandson since birth."
"I'm fine, and—-" Wait. A. Freaking. Minute. Did she just say what I think she said? My stunned gaze swings back to her, and the older woman has no trouble meeting my eyes.
"Who are you?" I ask again, but this time I'm unable to keep my voice from shaking.
"My name is Potenziana Marchetti."
All I can do is stare at her.
Well...that explains a lot.
"You've heard of me?" she questions.
Asking me if I've heard of her is like asking me if I know who America's president is. Ever since I ran away from my foster home over a year ago, there hasn't been a single day that I haven't heard other homeless folks whispering her name like it's either a curse or a prayer.