Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I wake early the next morning and peek into her library. She’s asleep in a little ball on her big, comfy chair, snoring softly and wrapped in a throw blanket. My stomach twists at the sight of her, and I decide things don’t have to be this way. I can be fucking better for once in my life, or at least I can try. I head downstairs to make coffee and breakfast.
She appears right when the bacon is finished, which is great timing by her. I push a mug of coffee over and plate some scrambled eggs as she sits at the table and glares at me like she wants to jab a fork down my throat. Which happens to be an effective means of torture, from personal experience.
“We’re taking a ride when you’re done,” I say, giving her more bacon, and sitting down on the other side of the table.
“Oh, yeah? You think I’m allowed to do that, or should we go ask your Don for permission first?”
I don’t rise to the bait. She’s still angry, and I’ll let her be angry. “Wear something comfortable.”
She shakes her head and drops her fork on the plate. “I can barely believe your bullshit right now. You know I’m still mad at you, right?”
“Dolcezza,” I say as gently as I can. “Please, just this once, finish this meal I cooked for you then go put on comfortable clothes. I want you to see something, and I hope it will help explain things.”
That gets her attention. Her brows knit, but she’s still very much on guard. I like the way she looks like she’s not sure if I’m about to bite her throat off or if I’m going to shower her in presents. It’s a little of both.
“Just so you know, if this ride doesn’t make me feel better, I’m going to be even more angry with you.”
“I figured as much.” I get up and leave her to eating since I don’t think my presence is helping much. I sit in the back yard and answer emails from the patio table, but I’m distracted by my wife.
I shouldn’t care about her feelings. I’m keeping her safe, and that should be enough for her—except I don’t want to go to sleep alone anymore. I want her in the bed with me, I want to feel her warmth, I want her touch, her lips, her moans, I want her everything, and it’s very fucking inconvenient. I’ve never been responsible for someone else’s emotions before. I can barely handle my own.
The drive out to the edge of town is tense. She refuses to talk to me and I get tired of trying to draw her out. I pull down the bumpy driveway and park outside of the warehouse before killing the engine.
“You’re not about to kill me, are you?” Her eyebrows quirk. “Because my brothers would notice that.”
“Come on, baby,” I say and head toward the entrance.
She follows, looking a little reluctant, but once inside, she stares around at the mess, and I hope she understands.
The place is still a wreck. We organized what we could, but there are still shards of shattered crates and other refuse thrown in the corners waiting for some spare manpower to come haul it all away. I walk through the nightmare and gesture at a pallet of bullet boxes, thousands of them just waiting for their home.
“For years, our conflict with Uncle Luciano has been quiet,” I say, and I hope she can understand how important this is. “But he’s making moves, dolcezza. The night before last, one of my soldiers was killed outside of a bar, just gunned down in the middle of a fucking crowd. His girlfriend has just given birth to a little baby boy, and now that child will grow up without a father.”
I turn to face her. I’m not telling her this to make her feel bad, but to make her understand. If she had asked me to get a job a week ago, I would’ve said yes, without hesitation, because I want her to be happy. I want her to find a way to fit in this new life.
But now Santoro has gone from sinking boats and wrecking a warehouse to drawing blood, and that’s a line which can’t be uncrossed.
“I didn’t know,” she says, speaking very gently. Her hands stray to her face. “Oh, god. That’s why you were in a bad mood.”
“Rocco was a good man. Bruno’s pretty fucked up over the whole thing. Everyone’s on high alert waiting for Santoro’s next move, and that’s why I can’t have you out getting a new job.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” she asks and comes closer. “I feel like such an asshole right now.”
“I’m not good at this.” Which is an enormous understatement. I’m not good at anything when it comes to human interactions, much less navigating a complicated relationship like the one I’m forming with Stefania. We were thrown together, forced into a match that neither of us really wants, and that makes this immeasurably more difficult. I don’t know where I stand with her, and I don’t know where she stands with me, which leaves us tangled in a messy knot.