Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 109674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Did I make sense? I had no intention of mentioning that I had a little crush on him, and it definitely wasn’t why I had risked my father’s wrath.
“Do you feel guilty because your father did all this?”
I paused. Did I? “Maybe. But I didn’t know.”
He nodded. “I believe you. And you don’t have to feel responsible for me.”
“But I do.”
“And I’m fucking glad about it if I’m being honest.”
I smiled at his bluntness.
Nestore pushed to his feet and came toward the bars, then gripped them. His gaze implored me to help him. “I need to escape from here, Amelia. Your father will kill me. He’ll torture me. My only chance is to get out.”
My throat corded up. “I don’t know how. I don’t have the keys, and nobody will hand them to me. My father is still in the hospital, so I’m being left to my own devices.”
“My former bodyguard, Eduardo, has the keys. If you could find him and grab them from him…”
I wasn’t a thief or a sleuth. My father had never taught me to fight, pick a lock, or do anything remotely useful in our male-dominated world. If I got caught trying to steal the keys, Father would punish me harshly. The last time I had contradicted him at the dinner table, he’d whipped me with his belt in front of Flavia and the staff until my ass was red. I couldn’t sit for days. If I betrayed him… I shuddered to think of the consequences I’d encounter then.
But Nestore needed my help.
“It’s okay,” Nestore murmured, his voice heavy with resignation. “I’m asking too much of you. We’re not even friends. I can’t expect you to risk your life for me.”
“My father wouldn’t kill me.”
Nestore’s gaze reflected skepticism.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can try to put in a good word for you with my father.” That in itself was already risky and would probably not yield results. My word meant little to my father.
Nestore gave me a bitter smile and returned to the spot where I’d found him. He sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his long legs.
“I could bring you food and water?” I wanted to do something. I didn’t want him to believe that I would support my father.
Nestore chuckled, giving me a sardonic look. “Dying of thirst would be mercy, and you want to take that from me?”
I gaped, not sure what to say to that.
He shook his head, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “That was a joke. I won’t give your father the satisfaction of dying down here.”
“Good,” I said.
He opened one eye with a tired smile, then closed it again.
“I’ll grab something for you to eat.” I took a step back.
“Take the back entrance over there.” He pointed to the end of the cellblock. “That staircase ends behind the kitchen. The staff there can keep their mouths shut. Or did your father kill them?”
“I don’t know.” I hurried down the way Nestore had recommended and found myself behind the kitchen on the first floor. I peered inside. It was the size of a restaurant kitchen, and just as many people were working there. Two cooks, if their hats were an indication, and three helpers who cleaned dishes, prepped veggies and fruits, and washed the pots.
I walked in. My entrance remained undetected due to the sheer volume of noise in the room. I cleared my throat, then again louder. One of the cooks spotted me—a tall, curvy woman in her thirties with long black hair piled into a net at the nape of her neck. “The mistress,” she announced loudly, and silence fell over the room, everyone becoming motionless. I flushed. The staff at our home was equally instructed. My father expected utmost obedience.
“I was looking for some food and water.”
“Wasn’t the breakfast to your liking?” the older cook inquired, concerned.
My skin heated further. I had eaten breakfast with Flavia before I went down to Nestore. Of course, it would look suspicious if I were to want more food so soon after. Next time, I’d have to hide some of my own food for Nestore. This was new to me, and I obviously had some learning to do.
“It was good. I simply crave more,” I said firmly, lifting my chin. I hoped they wouldn’t prod further. I wasn’t a very good eater, but they didn’t know me yet.
“Of course,” the cook said. “What would you like?”
“Pancakes, a stack of them with butter and maple syrup.”
“Bacon?” inquired the younger cook.
I hated bacon, but maybe Nestore liked it. “Yes, please.”
“Where would you like to have your food?”
“Uhhh…” I cleared my throat. “I’ll take it with me to my room.”
“We can bring it up so you won’t have to wait,” the younger cook said as she began to cut slices from a big piece of pancetta.