Please God, she thought, don't let him be late. Although thinking about the meeting sent a chill through her, a chill that had nothing to do with the April weather.
Somewhere in the distance a flock of geese squealed and then there was silence.
Someone was coming. She heard the sound of heels in back of her, clacking on the stones. But there was a twist in the path, so she couldn't see, not really.
She didn't dare go to investigate. Instead she glanced at a wooden door in front of her, probably locked.
A shadow magnified on the stone wall. It was probably him, a tall man. Except why was he dressed like a monk – and why was he swinging that rope belt?
Something was reaching for her throat.
Her first thought was that she was having some sort of nightmare. But that didn't stop her from turning around and running towards the street as fast as her ballet slippers would allow.
And why hadn't she stayed in America - with her
family, where she would have been safe from all this madness?
Cappuccino at the Crypt is available
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She was going to be punished – she had no right to
Her breath came in gasps as she flew out of the
darkened street, wondering who would come to her aid at this time of night.
She was in the middle of the road when she heard it, the whizzing of a motorcycle, screeching down the street with a deafening sound, and he couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to, even if he saw her in the pitch black darkness where just one old fashion bulb lit the area -
She felt an indescribable pain in her groin as her right leg ripped from her torso and then she fell backward when her head hit the concrete. It happened in a manner of seconds but it seemed as though she lay there forever, not feeling anything below the waist, drenched in wet, shocking, scarlet blood, her vision blurry, her nausea rising -
And the very last thing she saw as she lay dying in Sicily was the monk coming towards her holding that frayed piece of rope.