Page 109 of Frozen Heart
“You should have seen him in my office this morning. Stubborn, stubborn man. He’d rather die than confess the truth, but I’ll make him say it.”Click. Click. Click.“Not with words, but with actions. It will be my greatest achievement! And at the same time, my parting gift.”
Staring at him, I try to fold into myself as much as the restraints will allow. I just want to make myself as small as possible. My panic continues to swell. Bartholomew looks way too excited, his eyes way too bright. They nearly glow as he fervently clicks his pen. By all appearances, he is a man possessed, and none of his words make sense.
“He will arrive at any moment. He will admit the truth! He will acknowledge that there is something in this world that Adriano Ruffo finds more precious than money, more alluring than influence, and more consuming than power. Something that he loves more than he loves himself.”
The clicking of the pen stops.
“You.”
It couldn’t have hit harder if he put a bullet point-blank in my head.
The taste of acid fills my mouth while I gawk at Bartholomew’s crazed, excited gaze. I glance away after only a moment, unable to bear the crushing weight of the false hope shining in his eyes. The agony that floods me surpasses even the overwhelming fear that has held me in its grip since I woke up at the mercy of a madman.
Does he truly believe, in this twisted fantasy of his, that my husband will march in here and declare his undying love for me? All while saving me from the villain, as if we’re stuck in a romance novel?
Will Adriano come for me? Most likely. He’ll see it as his duty, an opportunity to ensure he doesn’t appear weak. Appearances matter inla Famiglia. My husband will make sure I’m saved. It just won’t have anything to do with his feelings.
“He will come,” I whisper, while my heart withers in my rib cage. “And he will probably kill you. As for the rest… You might as well save your breath.”
Bartholomew’s psychotic grin stretches even wider. “Looks like Adriano’s not the only one in denial!”
“I’m not in denial. This is reality.” I drop my head and inhale slowly. “Adriano may…like me, in his own way. Or, feel…something for me. But it’s not love. I’m…I’m not sure he is capable of that.”
“And what about you? Are you in love with him?”
Am I? I’m afraid that I am. Despite everything he’s done… Despite who he is… I’m in love with my husband. “Yes.”
“I see.” He lifts his pen, tapping the end on his chin. “I hadn’t foreseen the possibility of a baby, but this could work in my favor. Will Adriano be capable of overcoming this latest blow? His wife carrying another man’s child?”
My head snaps up.
“W-what?”
“How did it happen? Did you manage to slip away from your protection detail, or did you conceive even before the wedding?”
I stare at Bartholomew, appalled.
“How did it happen?” I shout back. “Sleeping with my husband for the past three months is a very likely way, don’t you think?”
“Oh… You know it’s him? At the gentlemen’s club?”
“Yes. I found out shortly after our wedding. I have never cheated on my husband.”
Bartholomew chuckles. “It’s really rather funny. Hebelieveshe can’t have kids.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“It’s true. And Adriano’s greatest dream has always been the one thing he could never attain. Not with all his money or all his power. A child.Hischild. He was diagnosed with male infertility, you know. Extremely low sperm count. Quite shocking for someone who believed his influence could procure anything.”He approaches and crouches in front of me, a playful expression overtaking his face. “I love this new development. It’s time.”
He shoves the gag back into my mouth before I can utter a single word.
“Don’t worry, I never intended to hurt you. If everything goes to plan, you lovebirds will be soaring away together into the sunset,” he says happily as he heads toward his duffel bag. “Unless Adriano disappoints me, of course. Then he’ll die.”
An anguished scream builds in my throat as I watch in horror while Bartholomew pulls out a gun. Just as the rumble of an engine and the crunch of gravel under tires reach me from outside.
The setting sun bathes the barren landscape in a blazing glow of crimson and gold as I park my car. The blinding rays reflect off the shards of glass remaining in a few scattered pieces of discarded machinery. And off the few puddles remaining after this morning’s rain. A decade ago, this abandoned gravel pit was owned byla Famiglia, but, without thinking it through, Batista Leone sold it to a developer who was looking to turn it into a golf course. Considering the number of bodies buried in these hills, I made an offer and reacquired it as soon as I found out. Paid nearly triple the original selling price, but I considered it a worthwhile investment to save the unnecessary headache. Especially since the bulk of the corpses were my doing.
Exiting the car, I face the lone, derelict trailer that was the site office at one time. It lies in the west quadrant of theproperty, at its very edge and beneath the shade of nearby trees, mere feet from the exact spot I came across Bartholomew all those years ago. The door to the building stands ajar, with a beam of light spilling from inside like some kind of lighthouse beacon.
