Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Perhaps looking out at the garden wasn’t the best plan. I focus on my food, trying one of the pizza rolls to start off with. This is another item my mother would’ve had a conniption over. It’s not bad, but it’s not good, and I think that’s the way it’s meant to be. I eat another one, chewing thoughtfully before taking a big drink of Dr. Pepper. I feel like a little rebel in here, snacking and hiding out. But it’s not real. Mateo likely knows right where I am.
I miss my dorm, the freedom of living on campus. But I suppose I’ll never have that again. The thought sobers me even more, and my hunger fades. I take a few more bites then lean back and simply look out the window. Past the roses, I see what looks like a stable, and beyond that a large wooded grove. The property is sprawling, and I wonder what other buildings lurk behind the house. There’s a pool house that I can just see the stone edge of, and past that are more trees.
A creak behind me has me turning my head.
Two men walk in, their gazes landing on me immediately even though I’ve tried to shrink back into the alcove.
One of them smirks. “I like the outfit, Mrs. Milani.”
That name. I hadn’t even thought about it. But that’s who I am now. Not Lucretia Fontana. Not a person. I’m simply an attachment of Mateo’s, a piece of him.
The one who spoke to me stops beside the table.
I look up at him and force myself to glare. It’s one thing for Mateo to abuse me, but another for one of his men. My mother didn’t teach me many useful lessons over the years, but she was always very clear on not letting soldiers push her or me around. ‘We may have to bend to the will of great men, Lucretia, but that’s all. No one else tells us what to do. No one else touches us. Do you understand me?’ I can still feel the phantom pinch of her fingernails on either side of my chin as she told me this, her tone whispered and harsh. The fact that she believed—and still believes—my father to be a great man creates a raucous mix of disgust and anger inside me.
The soldier’s gaze slides lower and lingers on my breasts, and then he licks his lips. “Not bad.”
“Leave.” I use the haughtiest tone I possess.
His dark eyebrows rise. “You’re giving orders now?”
I lift my chin and look at a point over his head. “I’m Mrs. Milani, so yes. Get out of my sight.”
His amusement evaporates into a snarl. “You don’t tell me to do shit, stuck up little bitch.”
“Geno, let’s go.” The other man shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “Come on.”
The mouthy one points a finger at me. “You’ll learn your place soon enough. I’ll get my turn to show you where you belong when Mateo passes you around.”
He follows the other man out, the door slamming behind them.
I jump, then wrap my arms around myself and fight like hell not to cry. What he said hadn’t even occurred to me. Does Mateo really intend to share me with his men? A shudder races through me at the idea, and I clench my eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then another.
“You don’t like the food?” An older man’s voice.
I turn toward it and put my hands out to ward off whatever is coming next.
The chef from earlier stands behind the island, his eyes on me. “I make whatever Mateo and his band of merry men ask for. Red likes the pizza rolls.” He wrinkles his nose. “Mateo prefers a burrata with fresh bread. Sonny is the pickiest. Plain saltine crackers with a thin brush of hummus.” He tsks. “And Benny eats pretty much everything. What’s your favorite food? I’ll add it to the spread.”
He has kind eyes with crow’s feet beside them and salt and pepper hair. The white uniform has black embroidery over his breast with the name Carter. I don’t trust him, but of all the men I’ve seen in this house so far, he seems the least dangerous. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking and he’s hiding a shiv in his back pocket.
“Ramen.” I answer the first thing that comes to mind.
“What kind?” He leans against the stove, no judgment in his eyes or tone.
I swallow my embarrassment. “The cheap kind that comes in the little packages.”
“Hmph.” He nods. “That’s … unexpected.”
I shrug, my muscles finally loosening up. “I’d never had it until I went to college.”
“Yeah?” He walks to the pantry and starts digging around. “I guess your parents weren’t the ramen type?” he calls.
“No.” I shake my head. “My mother hates carbs. She eats pasta, of course, but sparingly. There’s no way she would’ve let me have ramen. But when I got to college, I could get whatever I wanted.”