Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I slowly creep out of the bedroom, finding his eyes on mine the second I come into his view.
I don’t smile at him although it seems natural to do it. It’s a reaction beat into my brain. The Severino brothers wanted me to appear excited and happy to see them. They wanted me to be like the beaten dog that stills wags its tail when its owner comes out to feed it with the hopes that it will be met with kindness rather than a kick to the ribs. Sometimes I think the psychological abuse was much harder to deal with than the physical abuse.
I can feel his eyes on me the entire time it takes me to cross the small room, one hand still clutching the towel at my chest. I know not to trust in the safety of the threadbare fabric as I open the washing machine and pull my clothes from it and put them in the dryer.
His back is to me now, but I know he’s still very aware of my every move. I clear the lint catch, surprised to find hardly anything in it before closing the door and turning the machine on.
He hasn’t paused in eating his bowl of cereal, and the man honestly looks a little childlike over his bowl of Frosted Flakes.
I don’t ask for permission when I go to the fridge and pull out the milk before heading to the cabinet to get a bowl. Like the bathroom towel, it seems there’s only one, and he’s using it.
He glares at me as I pull the only cup down and pour cereal into it before topping it off with milk and grabbing the lone fork from the dish drainer.
He lives alone. That’s very clear. He isn’t a man that depends on material things. He either lives a very simple life or this isn’t his only house.
He keeps his eyes locked on me as I take a seat across from him, wondering why he has two chairs at the table but only one of everything else. I know better than to open my mouth to ask him, opting to stuff it full of sugary cereal instead.
Chapter 17
Hollis
I can’t help but stare at her as she takes her seat across from me. I never would’ve expected a Mafia princess to be creative enough to pour cereal into a cup and eat it with a fork. I hate being surprised by her.
“This isn’t going to work,” I tell her with a mouth full of food, waiting for her to cringe at my lack of manners.
She scoops a forkful into her mouth, chewing as milk drips from her chin. I almost grin at her, but her ability to make me react in any way annoys the shit out of me.
“You’re going to have to earn your keep.”
She looks a little disappointed in me at the same time her eyes widen in fear. It’s as if she’s somehow not surprised but also saddened at the change of pace.
“You’ll have to cook,” I say, trying to put her mind at ease. I have no idea why her emotional state is even a consideration of mine.
Her frown deepens as she places the cup of cereal on the table. “I can’t cook. I never learned.”
I scoff. It doesn’t surprise me that she had servants all her life, but a hint of disappointment washes over me. I was really looking forward to eating something I didn’t have to make myself. It’s been a very long time since someone cooked for me.
“Figures, princess,” I spit as I stand and take my cereal bowl to the sink.
“It wasn’t like that,” she counters.
“You know how to do laundry but not cook?”
I turn to face her, wondering if she’s actually lying to me.
“Alessio didn’t hurt me in front of the staff. He had an image to keep.”
I consider her words, and they seem true, especially with what I’ve observed. The way she held her head high in the club as if she had almost as much power as the man who rested his hand on her back. But also the way she flinched instinctively in the truck like she fully expected me to hit her, a trained response.
“So, you had to clean the blood from your clothes?”
“Yes,” she answers before picking up her cup of cereal and taking another bite.
It wasn’t until I woke up starving that I realized neither of us ate at all yesterday. She never asked, and I was too lost in my own thoughts yesterday to eat.
“The families who had servants had them because those people were working off some sort of debt. They didn’t get paid. The people in my house were working off debts owed to my grandfather.”
“How long has your grandfather been dead?”
She narrows her eyes at me before answering and I thrive on that spark of fire in her eyes.