Page 7 of Stolen Vows
He fights, but I clamp a hand over his mouth and pierce the center of his torso with my knife, stabbing the spot Valentina elbowed a few minutes ago.With a vicious twist and jerk, I spill his guts onto the refuse covered concrete.
It’s not enough.I jab his chest a few times, knowing first-hand the terrible agony of blade slicing flesh, puncturing organs, and grazing bone.The vicious reminder centers me and sharpens my focus.
I drop the man and leave him flopping on the ground to breathe his last breath alone.
Without an ounce of guilt, I walk away and don’t look back.
As good as it feels to rid the world of one piece of shit, it’ll feel exponentially better to cage the little liar who ruined my life with a few syllables.
I’ll break Valentina Denaro.I’ll make her mine while her father wallows in despair.
And I’ll enjoy every second.
Chapter 3
Valentina Denaro
Exhaustion tugs me toward the floor, but I shake my head and tighten my grip on the stationary bike’s handlebars.The sensation of eyes watching me, which hasn’t faded since we first came to New York almost two months ago, pulls my attention to the security cameras in the corner of the room, but I yank my focus to the mirrored wall and grimace at my reflection.
I look like shit.I feel like shit.
I haven’t gotten a solid night of sleep since I visited Central Park the day after we arrived in the Big Apple.
A part of me refuses to believe I saw Mario Luciano.The man I bumped into looked much more weathered than the memories I have of my uncle and the hatred in his amber eyes glinted with otherworldly intensity, so I don’t blame myself for being confused.
I’m too afraid to mention it to my father.He’s been occupied with business meetings, and every time I try to talk to him, he reiterates how important my marriage to Romeo Yovanni is before dismissing me, so I’ve been pouring my focus into wedding preparations.
But each time I stop, my mind replays the moment I met Mario’s furious eyes in the park.
Hence my late-night escapade to the gym.
I push the pedals faster, hoping one last burst of effort will give me enough adrenaline to carry myself back to my room safely before I drop on the bed and pass out, but instead, when I peel my feet out of the straps, my heels drop to the ground like lead and my arms turn to rubber.After a moment of heavy breathing, I wipe the sweat from my face with the towel draped around my nape and swing my leg over the bike.I stumble as my muscles struggle to accept my weight.
I’m tired.So fucking tired.Between planning the wedding, shopping, and attending countless clubs and activities for the super-rich socialites of the city, I haven’t had any time to spend alone.
Which is good, because every time I am, paranoia creeps into me.I swear someone has had their eyes on me every second since I ran into my uncle in the park.
With my lungs burning and head swimming, I pick my way through the machines and steal a glance at the security camera.
Of course I feel like I’m being watched; I’m in a public space with CCTV.
So why when I shut my hotel door behind me does the feeling stay?I turn the lock and lean back against the closed door, thumping my skull onto the wood.
With my lashes halfway lifted, I study the ceiling as I battle a wave of hopelessness.My attention snags on the air vent over my bed.
Urgency sweeps through me.I want to climb onto the bed and yank the vent cover off the hole to check for a camera, but if I act crazy and the staff gossips, then my father will hear about it.The adrenaline I longed for downstairs floods my system and buzzes in my ears.
Maybe if I tell my father I feel unsafe without mentioning Mario, he’ll listen to me and investigate my room himself.It’s risky, but fabricating a story and making him think the police have a tail on me might push him into action and not make me look insane.Wild accusations of a man coming back to life and stalking me almost three-thousand miles away from where he died sounds preposterous even to me, and I saw him with my own eyes.
I shut myself in the bathroom, turn on the fan for extra noise, and eye the vent in the ceiling.Deciding I don’t care if it makes me look crazy, I grab a hand towel, climb onto the counter, and stuff the ends into the vent slats until it stays.After nearly landing on my ass from overestimating my abilities and hopping off the counter, I brace my shoulder on the wall and turn on the vanity lights.
I plug the tub drain and adjust the water temperature before yanking my hygiene bag to the center of the counter and rifling through it.
I pause when a feminine pad slips off the stack and lands on top of the box of hair dye.
Since we arrived in New York City two months ago, I had two very mild menses.They were more like spotting than an actual shedding of the lining of my uterus.
When I realized other girls in school didn’t suffer like I did, I began researching, but it’s been an agonizing process.
