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Hours tick by. The night guard’s the only company around, and he seems more interested in his steaming mug of coffee than in checking the premises. Then, like clockwork, she arrives.
Just as I am about to leave, she always shows up. Like she enjoys dragging my patience and she does not even fucking know it.
Sophie strolls up, wearing that sly smile of hers. Today, she is in a long black trench coat.
What the fuck?
She passes the guard a box and the old man’s grin stretches from ear to ear, and I can feel my blood simmering. Something about her gets under my skin like nothing else. I hate that he is smiling at her.
I am fighting the urge to get out of the car and shoot him, consequences be damned.
She disappears into the unit, lugging a heavy bag. My mind races, trying to puzzle out what she’s hauling in there. But before I can sneak a closer look, the patrol guy’s flashlight dances across the lot. I duck out of sight, not willing to risk getting caught.
I park my car a little way’s off the road, waiting for Sophie to leave. It takes an hour, but finally, her car glides past. Temptation gnaws at me—should I tail her? Maybe find out where she lives.
I shake my head, opting to head back to the house. Tomorrow’s another day, and I’ve got questions that need answers.
As I drive off, thoughts whirl around my mind. Why this place? What’s Sophie up to? The storage unit in the middle of nowhere raises more questions than I care to count. But one thing’s for sure: Sophie's got secrets, and I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Alessandro
I’m tossing and turning in bed, the weight of Rachel’s betrayal heavy on my mind. It cuts deep, and it’s not easy to shrug off. The thought gnaws at me, an incessant reminder of what I’ve lost.
But wallowing in despair isn’t my style. I decide to hit the home gym, hoping to punch out this frustration that’s consuming me alive.La rabbia, it’s eating me up, and I need an outlet.
The rhythmic thuds of my fists against the punching bag are the only solace I can find. Each punch is a release, an attempt to drive away the thoughts of her deceit. The sweat beads on my forehead, my muscles ache, but the physical strain is a welcomed distraction from the turmoil inside.
Time becomes irrelevant in the chaos of my mind, until I hear a throat being cleared behind me. Pietro. His presence is unexpected, yet not unwelcome.
“Salve, Alessandro,” he greets me cautiously, sensing the storm brewing within.
“I’m fine,” I reply curtly, my breaths heavy, the Italian words clipped with tension. “What time is it?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I’ve lost track of time.
“Quasi le dieci,”he answers calmly, his concern evident.
Almost ten?
“I have to go,” I mutter, grabbing my towel to wipe the sweat off my face, the frustration evident in my tone.
Pietro observes me silently, his features a mask of understanding and concern. He knows something’s amiss, but he respects my need for space.
I head to the inbuilt locker room, trying to shake off the remnants of the thoughts that continue to haunt me. The betrayal stings, like a wound that’s been rubbed raw.
As I change into a fresh shirt, Pietro approaches, his voice cautious yet comforting.“Vuoi parlarne?”He asks, offering his support. Do you want to talk about it?
I shake my head, not ready to open up about it. “Non è niente, solo questioni di lavoro,” It’s nothing, just work stuff. I deflect, not wanting to burden him with my personal struggles.
Pietro, being Pietro, doesn’t easily back down. “Sai che sono qui se hai bisogno di parlare, vero?” You know I’m here if you ever need to talk, he insists.
I nod, appreciating the gesture. “Lo so, Pietro. Grazie. But I really have to go.”
“Okay, but be careful.” He excuses me as I rush out the door. I can’t afford to be late for this meeting.
* * *
I’m in the car, Giulio at the wheel. His nerves are palpable; I can sense it in the way he taps the steering wheel, adjusting the mirrors more times than necessary. “It’s a quick visit,” I reassure him, trying to ease his tension.
