Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
This man is a cold-blooded killer. And by the looks of this lush penthouse, he’s probably made his fortune in very questionable ways. The Italian mafia has quite a foothold in Vegas, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Vincent is involved in it on a high level. But even as he showed me around my prison here, dwarfing me with his height and stature, and fixing on me with his dangerous stare—I’d be lying if I said his angular jawline’s movement when he spoke, or the way his muscles filled his shirt, didn’t captivate me. Why am I not horrified by this man? Shouldn’t I be? One thing is for sure, right off the bat, Vincent likes to be in control of things, and I refuse to let him. I won’t allow anyone to have power over me again, no matter what I have to go through.
Only two days after my thirteenth birthday, my mother died, and less than a week later, someone placed me in my first group home. I thought that growing up poor with a single mother was bad, but at least I had been free. Losing my freedom made me wish I could go back to being poor, to have my mom alive, and my freedom back. All those years after her death taught me some important lessons. I learned monsters could look like regular people, and that no one was coming to save me. I realized self-preservation was the key to survival. So, I learned to survive alone and not to trust anyone who held a position of power—the staff at the group homes, the foster families, even the protective service officials who oversaw our care from time to time. Those people only wanted one thing: to exploit and exert control over those of us who were weaker than they were. Anyone who didn’t subscribe to those ideals of corruption didn’t last long in the system. Those counselors or teachers who truly tried to help always ended up quitting and walking away defeated, leaving me feeling abandoned. That trauma set deeply into my very bones. But—I learned.
When the door opens again, I expect it to be Vincent. Instead, a different man stands in the doorway this time. He has a broom in one hand and a gun affixed to his waist.
“Hello, Ms. Hart,” he says with a surprisingly gentle smile. “My name is Marco, and Mr. Moretti has assigned me as your bodyguard.”
“Who?” I ask, realizing that thus far, I’ve only been given first names.
“Mr. Vincent Moretti,” he clarifies as he sweeps up the broken glass and the spilled breakfast tray.
“Do you double as a housekeeper?” I joke.
“Not usually, but Mr. Moretti warned me you’ve got a bit of a hot temper.”
“Did he now?”
Marco laughs with a sort of boyish charm, and I can’t help but wonder how he wound up working for a guy like Vincent. He seems much too normal and kind to be one of the Devil’s henchmen.
“So, can I have some lunch sent to you?” he asks. “You must be getting hungry since you haven’t eaten anything.”
“How do you know I haven’t eaten?”
He motions his hand toward the swept-up pile of spilled breakfast on the floor. “You’re a dancer, right? A ballerina? I heard that dancers have a higher metabolism than most. And I’m pretty sure that Mr. Moretti wants to make sure that you’re well-cared for.”
Without even meaning to, he’s given me an idea. If I can’t escape this place, then I will at least resist. I won’t give Vincent the pleasure of feeling like he can control me, even if I am a prisoner here.
“No, thank you,” I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
In truth, I’m starving. I don’t have a lot of fat on my body as it is, and I’m already feeling lightheaded. But I will hold out for as long as it takes. Until Vincent either lets me go or is responsible for my withering away because of my hunger strike. Madame Durant’s search will eventually lead her to me, but not likely here, atop a casino. But eventually, Vincent will feel some heat for my disappearance when people start asking questions about why my upcoming performances are being canceled.
“Alright,” Marco concedes. “I won’t force you to eat anything. But Ms. Hart—”
“You can call me Isla,” I interrupt. “Ms. Hart makes me sound as old as my dance instructor.”
“Isla,” he continues, dropping all the formalities and last names now. “A word of advice—Vincent isn’t as accommodating as I am. When it comes to following his rules, he doesn’t give an inch.”
“What’s he going to do, force-feed me?” The question’s sarcasm contrasts with Marco’s serious expression.
“He’ll do what he has to do in order to keep you alive and get you to comply.”
Upon his departure, I return to sitting on the bed and staring out the window again.