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“Stay in the car,” Rocco growls under his breath.
But seeing Maria again has me on edge. Like something’s gonna go horribly wrong somehow, and I don’t want to be left on my own, not even for a minute.
Not even an inch from Rocco’s side.
But as I feel his scornful gaze once I leap from the car into the rain, we’re both shocked by the dry laugh that comes from Maria Portello.
I think I’ve heard the kind of beaten laugh from my own mouth sometimes.
The sound of “Really? What else is gonna happen today?”
As much as I’ve worn the same look myself, it’s not fun watching someone else go through it, not even someone like Maria Portello.
It’s sad, and long before Rocco can say anything, I’m walking over to help her up, wanting all of us off the roadside, but Rocco orders us all back into the car.
“My bag,” Maria protests, but Rocco’s already stalking toward her car, turning his head as he goes, this way and that.
Making double sure all of this isn’t a setup.
But it’s not. I can feel it. I think we all can.
“What are you doing all the way out here?” I ask her, taking a blanket from the back seat, to help her warm up at least.
“I could ask you both the same thing,” she scoffs loudly, but her eyes narrow with a bitterness I could never match.
“I think Rocco and I have one thing in common,” she muses.
I feel anger rising in me. Pure jealousy, really, that she’d even put herself in the same sentence as Rocco.
But she explains what she means as he’s getting back into the car, passing her bag over to her, which turns out to be a complete luggage set into the back seat.
“Maybe like you, Martinelli,” she says with a tone of accusation. “Maybe I saw a chance to get out myself. I was kidnapped today, remember?” she laughs scornfully, focusing her eyes on mine again for a second.
“But I’m using it to my advantage,” she says to no one in particular. “Getting out while I can. Nobody’s ever seenMaria Portello, except you two,” she adds, raising her brow and studying the gun Rocco still has trained on her.
“You would’ve shot me by now if you were going to,” she sighs, sounding bored again.
“Look. I just need a ride to the roadhouse. It’s about two miles up ahead. Drop me there, and I’ll let you have one of these cases,” she purrs.
I noticed Rocco’s huge arms straining as he moved the cases.
Something tells me there’s more than her delicates in each bag.
“And why would I trust you? A Portello?” Rocco growls, unimpressed by her offer so far and looking briefly at me, showing his disappointment that I'm helping her at all.
“Because tonight we’re neither Portello nor Martinelli,” Maria says feverishly, her face flushed, and her strong Calabrese accent is showing through.
“Tonight, we’refree, and if you want your freedom as much as I want mine, then you’ll have no trouble understanding how much I need to get to where I’m going.”
It’s a little overdramatic, but I figure that’s how these people talk most of the time. Every minute of every day is a drama in their world.
“Fine,” Rocco groans, shifting his weight toward the passenger side, jutting his chin toward me.
“I’ll sit right here. You can drive, Jasmine. Try not to hit any potholes…Hate to see Maria’s face painted all over the car.”
But I don’t budge. I don’t make a sound until his eyes find mine.
“I…I don’t drive. I can’t,” I admit, feeling awkward about it for the first time ever.
