Page 56 of Wicked (Wicked Billionaires #2)

RAVEN

I streak down the castle steps as fast as I can. I am still wearing the black riding boots and jodhpurs. As I hit the lobby, I dash between nosy tourists, and my pack goes over my shoulders.

I vault quickly onto Olive, and I charge away with Tito on my heels.

Behind me, Dante runs outside, but he stops as the news cameras film him, me, and the castle. Above us, the news helicopter circles, and it films everything.

It’s not a discreet escape, but as I charge through trees, I stay low, and I hold on for my life.

Just as I think I’ve made it, and the chopper has lost me, the helicopter banks around and heads my way.

As I gallop through the leaves and low branches, head down, tears pour from my eyes, and I see little.

Finally, I lose the helicopter deep in the trees, and I double back around the back of the castle. I slow at the dangerous cliff trail, and I look back to see Tito still following.

Panting, he runs up with big, confused eyes.

“Go home, boy! Go home,” I say, wiping an eye to see.

I ride on, and as I cry, Tito keeps coming. After pushing myself down the dangerous cliff-face, I make it to the beach.

I then decide, and it is high risk. All or nothing…

I will be out in the open, and highly visible if the chopper circles wider, or if anyone calls it in. It will be a horribly long two minutes, but I have no other choice.

As I charge across the sand, I stay extra low and flat. Tito sticks with me, and finally, I ride up to the villa, my phone still beeping with messages and emails.

I vault down, and I dig in my daypack for the rental keys. After opening the damaged red rental car, I try the engine.

Finally, on the third attempt, it starts with a roar.

I run around the car to check the tires, and I see the grill is still damaged and dented.

I give zero Fs because she is still going, and she can get me out of here. I go to pat Olive, knowing someone will soon find her, and let her free without her saddle.

Suddenly, Tito runs from the beach, and he is exhausted and confused.

As I drop to a knee, I feel even more emotional.

Tito runs into my arms, and ears down, he leans against me. Tears well up again as the sweet dog whines.

“Oh, baby…” I say, wiping tears away and holding him close.

Tito licks my face, and he must taste the salt. He whines louder, and it makes me sob even more. As I hold him to my chest, he leans into me. I can sense he knows.

Knows this will be the last time I ever see him.

“Look after Dante, Tito. I’ve… I’ve got to go. I won’t ever see you again.”

Tito licks my face again, and I hold his face in my hands. I want him to know this here is the last time we will ever see each other. It is the second sword to my heart today, and I can’t take much more.

“I’m sorry, Tito. I’m so, so sorry. Stay well.”

Pulling myself from him, I wipe tears on my sleeve and leap into the car. I look out as Tito’s big eyes stare back. I can tell he is confused, alone, and hurting.

I yell in frustration and throw the car in first gear.

I race away, and only when I’m far down the road and out of the timeless village do I look in the mirror.

Tito has walked into the middle of the road, and he stands watching me. My heart shatters into a million pieces, and I know I will never recover from this.

Ever.

I drive like a maniac and South towards Rome for thirty minutes. I ignore my beeping phone, but I finally force myself to slow and pull over. I book a flight leaving Rome in two hours, and then I push on. I think about the missed calls, even as I try not to.

It’s impossible. I missed calls from Dante, his grandmother, his sister, Parker, and even my boss! My boss, the woman who had used my name in her shitty article and just destroyed my reputation this side of the world.

The same woman who has likely demolished my reputation in travel journalism forever!

I drop the damaged rental car back at the rental parking area at the airport and not the office area. After putting the car’s key in the return slot, I head off like an animal on the run.

There is no way I’m emotionally capable to handle endless insurance forms or answer awkward questions in Italian or pidgin English.

As I head into Rome’s airport, I pull on my dark sunglasses. I am traveling light, and I only have my daypack, laptop, novel notes, mom’s book, a few tops, and a jacket.

I go through customs and immigration head down, stone-faced, and on autopilot. After I finally reach the gateway, I sit with my face in my hands.

I cry in silence as a flatscreen TV near me shows footage of a helicopter buzzing around a castle and people falling from horses.

After ten horrible minutes, I check social media on the debacle. Italian journalists are slamming my work, and they’re beyond brutal. The high society woman from the wedding even calls my writing ‘unacceptable vulgar trash from a foreign peasant’ on social media.

The thing is, I walked into a trap.

I wipe an eye for the twentieth time, and I realize my life is a disaster. My travel journalism career is over. I’ve lost Dante. I’ve lost Tito, and I’ve lost the friendships of everyone in Italy.

I look down at my stupid life, that being my old daypack and everything inside. I realize, there and then, I need to get my act together.

This is all I have! This is all I am.

One miserable novel.

My life is one piece of paper. One, lone messy scramble of words. As I sob and keep my head down, I try to work out where I’d started to fail. A stupid quote then comes to me, and it is ridiculous:

Only at our lowest point, do we achieve the impossible.

I mumble it a couple times and I feel tears fall. I wipe snot from my nose, flip up my laptop, and I type fast.

With my heart ripped into pieces, and with nothing to lose, I write the last three pages of the novel.

It’s more of a cosmic mental dump, and I type fast through wet eyes. I also feel more than I think. As my fingers move on their own, I feel like a dazed moron, streaming connective, and universal morals.

I don’t even know who or what part of me is telling me to write. All I know is, I did not plan it, and I cannot stop.

I hammer away for thirty minutes in the manic haze, and once I finish, I don’t even check it.

I then do this… I send the novel away to the only publishing contacts I have at major companies. They are people I’ve met through mutual contacts, and some of them are hot.

My cover email is short and to the point. Unlike the novel itself.

My action is insane, but I’m broken.

I slam the laptop closed, and I know I have to control myself. What I’ve just done is reckless and unplanned.

It is so unlike me, but me… is failing… And I’m no good.

As I hold my legs and cry again, I start to rock and unravel. Minutes later, I calm down, and I look out the window as a large jet moves forwards. The large metal bird that will take me home to the messed-up little life I have in NYC.

Back where I belong.

Alone, sad and confused.

That gets me thinking, and with the book out there in the universe, and with whatever the ending is, my shoulders feel freer.

I grit my teeth, yank out my phone, and I type a short email. I reread it, hit send, and I lean back, with a sigh.

I hereby tender my resignation with immediate effect! PS. Fuck you.

Now, I am free!

I am also making moves. Maybe screwed-up moves, but I am making moves. That is when I realize I’m financially screwed.