Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
39
ROBIN
I didn’t think I had any tears left.
I cried until my throat hurt.
Until my eyes burned.
Until the tissue in my hand fell apart into snotty pieces.
Until the kind woman from the embassy came back into the room and quietly placed a whole box of tissues beside me without saying a word.
Now I sit in the little room with the phone back in its cradle and my hands wrapped around a bottle of water.
I should be thinking about getting home.
I am.
I should be thinking about my family.
I am.
I’m thinking about Eagle. Eagle, who’s still in the hospital. Still recovering.
Because of Cruz.
The same man who cupped my face like I mattered. The same man who killed Zabala after he murdered Señora Valentina. The same man who risked everything to get me out of Vega’s clutches.
I simply can’t.
The Bellamys have always been family first.
Always.
It was drilled into us from birth. Not gently.
Family first.
Blood first.
Loyalty first.
My father made sure we knew it. He said it like law. Like it was the only thing standing between us and a world full of people who would love nothing more than to see the Bellamy name dragged through dirt.
Of course, it turns out my father may not have been the best choice for those lectures.
My father.
Austin Bellamy.
The man who shaped us.
The man who tried to kill himself and somehow left the rest of us cleaning up the mess of a life he refuses to explain.
What the hell was he involved in?
Cruz said Vega’s secrets had something to do with my father. He said Eagle was acting erratically because he was close to discovering something Vega didn’t want made public.
Eagle got too close.
So Vega sent Cruz to shut him down.
Not kill him.
No.
Just make him look like he relapsed. Make him look unstable. Unreliable. A former addict ranting about conspiracies no one should believe.
My stomach turns. That almost makes it worse. Eagle wasn’t attacked because he was weak. He was attacked because he was right. Or at least getting close to being right.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
I straighten too quickly, my whole body jolting. This is my life now, I guess. Every knock, every creak, will startle the hell out of me.
The door opens, and a man in a suit steps inside. He’s older, all gray, but he looks kind. “Ms. Bellamy,” he says gently.
“Yes?”
“I’m Ambassador De Luca.”
I widen my eyes. The ambassador himself is here? I guess the Bellamy name does carry weight.
“I’ve received word that the aircraft your family chartered for you is ready at the airport.”
My heart jumps. “Already?”
“Yes. Mr. Gallo was very determined.”
That almost makes me smile.
Vinnie determined is terrifying. Vinnie determined with access to his grandfather’s private planes is probably enough to move mountains as well as foreign governments.
“He said he has access to one of his grandfather’s planes here in Colombia,” I say.
“That appears to be accurate.” The ambassador smiles. “I’m happy to accompany you to the airport myself.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“Take a few minutes if you need them.”
I look around the room.
The tissues. The water bottle. The phone. The chair where I cried so hard my ribs still ache.
Do I need a few minutes?
No.
I need three days of sleep, a shower, my own clothes, my family’s arms around me, and the ability to erase the last three days.
“I’m ready,” I say.
The embassy staff helps me through the next steps. Temporary documents. Security. More gentle questions. More careful faces. I answer what I can. I omit what I can’t yet say aloud.
Then I’m outside again.
Panic flares inside me.
I feel exposed. The sky is too wide. The street too full of moving parts. A car waits for us. It’s a black SUV with tinted windows. Luxurious. A far cry from Señora Valentina’s borrowed vehicle or the stolen car Cruz hotwired.
Cruz.
I wipe his name from my mind as I get into the car.
The ambassador sits beside me in the back seat. Another man drives.
We pull away from the embassy.
The driver says something, and the ambassador translates.
“La Candelaria,” he tells me. “The historic district.”
I turn my head toward the window.
La Candelaria.
People walk along the streets. Students with backpacks. Vendors. Tourists with cameras. A woman carrying flowers wrapped in paper. A man pushing a cart.
Normal life.
We continue through the city. Later the driver gestures and speaks again.
“He’s pointing out the Cerros Orientales,” the ambassador says.
I follow his gaze.
Mountains rise along the eastern border of the city.
Another tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, but the ambassador notices.
He says nothing.
Thank God.
The driver speaks again, pointing toward the hills.
“Monserrate,” the ambassador says. “And Guadalupe. Two famous hills.”
The car moves steadily toward the airport.
I stare out the window and force myself to catalogue what I see.
Traffic.
Concrete.
Clouds touching mountain ridges.
A cyclist weaving between cars.