Page 140 of Phantom Mine

“I’m here, I’m here.” I bring the phone back up to my ear. My eyes are on the burning candle, but I’m lost in thought and thousands of miles away. “Sorry.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“I can tell from your voice that something’s off.” He pauses before adding, “I think you should come home.”

“No, I promise, everything is fine,” I say reassuringly. “I can’t come home until she’s found,Papà.”

“That is not your responsi—”

“Listen, I have to go, I’m sorry again.”

I can tell he wants to argue but he knows he can’t force me to stay on the phone from all the way over inBogotá.

“Alright,niña. I love you very much,” he says.

I let the words wash over me and give me strength. “I love you too,” I whisper quietly in return.

The phone is ripped out of my hand.

One second it’s pressed to my ear, the next it’s gone.

I gasp, turning, only to come face to face with Matteo. He looms dangerously above me, a towering mountain of quickly devolving fury as he grips my phone tight enough to break it.

Some bizarre momentary presence of mind reminds me of the candle burning behind me. I spin and blow it out quickly.

“Who the fuck is this?” Matteo snarls into the phone, every word strangled as they leave his lips. He glares down at me, a muscle spasming manically in his cheek. The smell of alcohol wafts off of him.

My eyes bulge. “Matteo!” I hiss, jumping to try and get my phone away from him. My fingers manage to brush over it before Matteo weaves to avoid me.

“Valentina?” I hear my father ask through the phone.

Matteo’s eyes burn with sharp, unrelenting wrath, his stare lashing me with a thousand accusations.

“What’s your fucking name?” he roars, unsteady on his feet.

Oh, god. He’s going to get himself killed.

Questioning myPapàin this manner is a surefire way to drastically shorten his life expectancy.

Panic makes me reach for the phone again.

Matteo’s hand snaps closed around my throat. A rage-filled growl rips from his chest with such force, it rattles the air around us. He pushes me until I’m at arm’s length, but I can still smell the alcohol on him. He reeks of it, like he fell head first into the world’s largest distillery. Just how much has he had to drink?

“This is Da Silva.” The clipped answer comes through the phone. My father doesn’t need to say anything else, the weight of his last name is enough.

Matteo’s hand slackens and the phone drops slowly away from his ears. His eyes close, his face twisting in pain.

Using his momentarily distracted state, I snatch the phone out of his hand, end the call, and throw it across the room. It bounces off the couch and hits the floor.

Immediately, it starts to ring.

My father calling me back, I’m sure.

When Matteo’s eyes reopen, they sharpen bitterly on me and drain to a lifeless color of black I’ve never seen before.

My lips part but I never get a chance to speak.

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