Chapter 19 Valentina
VALENTINA
The heavy feel of an expensive comforter on my legs jolts me awake. I am briefly disoriented by the paneled walls and expansive space. Then, slowly, the other penny drops.
I’m in Giovanni’s room.
Traces of his aftershave mist the air, and let’s not forget his aura that depletes even the largest space of oxygen.
I remember now, but one question remains.
Why am I waking in his bed? I drifted off in the armchair with my arms folded and my brows narrowed.
I was determined not to get comfortable in his space, but now I’m under the covers, snuggling in as if accustomed to high-thread-count sheets.
I sit up too quickly, and my heart launches into my throat. It sinks several feet when I scan the room. Giovanni isn’t here. I don’t think he came back last night. The bedding on his side is untouched and cold.
The negativity I’ve been unsuccessfully dodging the past six months conjures up many theories. None of them are good.
What was so urgent that he needed to stay out all night? And worse… who was he with?
When only one name ripples in the crisp morning air, my back molars smash together. I shouldn’t care if Giovanni spent the night with Valeria, but I do. The thought of him out all night with her turns my veins to ash.
Why bring me to his room, then vanish for hours on end? It doesn’t make any sense.
Eager to wash his aftershave from my skin and perhaps drain my screams with a gallon of water, I slip out of bed.
Partway to the bathroom, I notice my backpack on a dresser by the windows.
I frown. That wasn’t there last night. I searched for it, convinced Giovanni’s staff would have delivered my belongings to my room.
Yet here it is, within view, as if it were put there for me to notice.
I’m about to grab it when a familiar ping breaks through the blood rushing in my ears.
I crank my head back to the bed so fast my neck muscles protest. They won’t be the only things requiring assessment when I get out of here.
I’ll need to get my hearing checked as well.
That’s how loudly my heart rages when I spot my phone on the bedside table.
It’s lit up with the alarm I set to remind myself to give my mom her tablets, and it prickles my skin with guilt. I set reminders to prevent my aunt from adding more responsibilities to her already overflowing task list.
After crossing the room in three quick breaths, I unlock my phone and tap out a message to my aunt.
Me:
Can you please give Mom her meds?
When I press send, nothing happens. I don’t have enough signal to send a text.
As I walk around the room, I raise my phone to the ceiling, trying to get a signal.
Frustration bubbles inside me when I don’t get a single bar. I need to get word to my aunt, but I’m trapped in a dead zone.
I shoot my eyes to the main door, anxious enough to consider ramming the wood until someone comes to check if I’m alive, and that’s when I see it. A key is in the lock, glinting in the morning light.
Suddenly, the room transforms into a sanctuary instead of a cage, yet my jealousy remains undeterred. I slip the battery out of my phone, snatch up my backpack, and then tug on my shoes like armed guards are sluggish during daylight hours.
Stealthily, I approach the door and press my ear to it. The only noise is the faint tick of an antique clock somewhere down the hall.
Carefully, I turn the key, flinching at its faint click, then slowly open the door. The hallway is dark because thick curtains obscure the morning sun. Hugging the wall, I move quickly past closed doors that announce most of the household is still asleep.
I halt at the bottom of the grand staircase upon hearing the distant clatter of crockery.
A maid’s voice trills through the swinging doors near a large dining table, followed by a butler’s low reply.
I don’t catch all their words, but what I hear gets my feet moving.
They’re preparing breakfast, which will be served in ten minutes.
Holding my breath, I dart across the marble floor of the dining room. Cool air slaps my cheeks as I slip through a side door. I arrive at the lemon grove before I know it, and for some stupid reason, the citrusy tinge in the air is more comforting than confronting.
After reaching the clearing I wrestled with Giovanni in last night, I quickly gather my bearings. I could keep running, but the dimming glimmer of Carlisle’s lights last night when I stared out the window, plotting my freedom, confirmed a walk to town isn’t feasible.
My ears perk up when the distinct grind of an engine starting breaks through the quiet. I hide behind lemon trees as I advance toward the sound. A truck is being loaded at the end of the orchard. The back is filled with crates of lemons.
A stocky man wearing a cap is speaking with a worker who is loading the shipment. “The dock, yeah?”
“Yeah,” the worker answers. “Boss’s orders.” After signing the delivery slip on the clipboard, he hands it to the driver. “Make sure you give this to the exporter.”
My curiosity piques. Can you still make money exporting lemons? I thought that trade went extinct when World War II ended. Lemons were highly sought-after during the war era because of their high vitamin C content, which was crucial for preventing and treating scurvy.
If my eighth-grade history teacher could hear me now, he’d be proud. I halt gloating about the information I obtained from school when the driver slams the truck’s loading doors closed. Mercifully, he doesn’t lock them before he heads to the cab, still grumbling.
When the workers head for the warehouse after waving the driver off, I race for the truck.
I’ve only just slipped into the cargo area when the driver flattens his foot to the gas pedal. I brace myself between two crates when his reckless speed reminds me of the truck that nearly mowed me down weeks ago.
My choice of transport is less than ideal, but its destination is perfect. My aunt works at the docks, and since she’s on her feet all day, she chose an apartment only a thirty-minute walk away.
As the truck winds down a twisty road, I press my forehead to the cold metal of the crate and try to control the panic flaring in my chest. Although I’m free, I feel more disappointed than relieved.
The last seventy-eight hours were hair-raising, but they felt more fulfilling than the previous three years combined.
There’s something addictive about living life in the fast lane.
Several miles later, the truck jolts to a stop. The air in the dock’s main distribution warehouse is stale and tinged with danger. Footsteps surrounding the cab of the truck signal it isn’t safe to slip out yet, so I sink deeper between the two crates.
Shortly after, the truck’s rear doors bang open and sunlight streams in.
I squint to protect my eyes before peering through the gap between the crates.
While complaining about the mechanical lift being broken, the driver thrusts the clipboard with the delivery slip at a man on his right, then gestures for him to enter the truck.
The stranger isn’t what I expected when picturing a lemon exporter.
If he’s a citrus lover, I’ll eat my hat.
He looks as dangerous as Giovanni—if not more so.
His accent is a blend of Russian and American, though it is his appearance that truly catches my attention.
Sleeves of tattoos snake up his muscular arms and neck, and his face is devilishly handsome.
If I had to guess his age, I’d say he’s in his early thirties.
He doesn’t greet the driver with a smile, nor does he accept the clipboard. Instead, he roots him in place with a steely look that matches the iciness of his eyes.
“You’re late.” His voice is low and commanding.
“I don’t like people being late. It wastes time I could have spent with my head buried between my wife’s legs.
” The driver mumbles something about traffic, but the exporter isn’t having it.
“I value my time with my ahren more than your excuses, so let’s cut to the chase. ”
Ahren? What’s an ahren?
I stay perfectly still when he tells the driver the consequences he’ll face if he’s ever late again, before he enters the truck to give the crates a cursory glance.
He isn’t here for the lemons. I’m sure of it. He barely glances at the fruit. It is as if they’re a cover for something far more sinister.
As his gaze sweeps over the crates at the back, his eyes land on me. My heart stops. I’m confident he saw me wedged awkwardly between crates of his merchandise, but he doesn’t utter a word. Instead, he retrieves his phone from his pocket and thumbs the screen.
With my heart in my throat, I watch him read something off his phone. A lazy smirk curls on his lips only a second before he twists to face the driver.
I’m certain he’ll tell him he has a stowaway, so you can imagine my surprise when he says, “I don’t care if you have to push these crates onto the ship yourself. I want them offloaded and in transport within the hour. Understood?”
The loose skin on the driver’s neck wobbles when he nods in agreement.
“But before that, I need a local’s perspective on the best restaurant for my ahren to experience a true Sicilian feast…” The exporter’s words trail off when he walks toward the office of the docks with the driver following him like a lost puppy.
A mix of relief and confusion fills me.
Why didn’t he say anything?
Is he letting me go, or is there something else at play?
I’m truly lost.
Although I want to look deeper into his decision, with the driver preoccupied with playing tourist guide, now could be my only chance to escape.
After exiting the truck, I join the throng of workers covered with the grime of a long shift. The nightshift workers are clocking out for the day. My escape couldn’t have been better orchestrated.
As I approach the exit, I cast a final glance at the exporter. Although he acts as if he doesn’t notice me, his upturned lips betray him.
He’s trouble. I can feel it. But I’m not sticking around to find out what kind.
My legs feel as heavy as bricks, and they make the walk from the docks to my aunt’s place seem unusually long. They’re not weighed down because I’m unfit. This is the result of how I use my muscles during back-to-back orgasms.
Sweat beads on my nape when I finally reach my aunt’s front door, but the exertion of climbing five levels isn’t the cause. It’s from reliving every second in the lemon grove last night. It was blissfully serene.
The door creaks shut behind me when I let myself in, but the silence in the living room makes butterflies take flight in my stomach.
I dump my bag by the door and call out for Mom and my aunt.
A knot twists low in my stomach when I don’t get an answer.
I don’t expect a reply from my aunt. I didn’t see her at the docks, but I was too busy blending in to search for her.
She’s normally at work at this time of the day.
But Mom? I anticipated a reply from her.
Dread runs down my spine when I enter the bedroom and find Mom’s bed vacant. She wouldn’t have gone out. She can’t. Most days, she can barely make it from the bed to the living room unaided.
I check the kitchen, the bathroom, and even the miniature balcony. The apartment’s tiny footprint allows for a quick search, but each empty room intensifies my fear.
My mother is nowhere to be seen.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, place the battery back in, and then check for any missed calls. The screen is blank. I give myself thirty seconds to panic before I force myself to think logically.
If Mom isn’t here, where else would she be?
The unwanted answer slowly sneaks up on me. Maybe something bad happened, and my aunt had to take my mom to the hospital. That’s probably why I didn’t see her at the docks. Again, I wasn’t looking, but my theory is the only one that makes sense.
I bolt for the exit as the panic curled around my throat chokes me.
As the door swings open, a shadow falls across the threshold, and I freeze. Giovanni’s impressive frame, bristling with anger, obstructs the only way out.