Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
The library entrance itself was imposing—double doors of dark wood, carved with intricate scrollwork. Giuliano produced a key from his pocket, the kind you'd expect to find in some ancient monastery.
"Not many people come here," he said, turning the key. "My father, occasionally. Sometimes the men, if they need to research something specific." He pushed the door open, and that distinctive scent of leather and paper washed over me. "Mostly it's just me."
The library was even more beautiful up close. Three stories of books stretched upward, connected by wrought iron spiral staircases that looked like black lace against all that wood.
"You actually read them?" I asked, trying to take it all in. "Not just for show?"
"Everything from business law to ancient philosophy." His voice softened. "Though I prefer the classics. There's something about those old stories..." He trailed off, like he'd caught himself revealing too much.
I was already trailing my fingers along the spines, reading titles in a dozen languages. "Your father collected these?"
"Most of them." Something shifted in his voice. "Though he barely reads them. He just likes showing them off to visitors—proof we're not just thugs in expensive suits."
I glanced back at him. "Sounds familiar."
I wandered deeper into the library, breathing in that intoxicating scent of aged paper and leather. The sun slanted through the windows, warming my skin as I moved between the towering shelves. My fingers traced the gilt letters on leather spines, feeling the subtle textures of decades-old bindings.
Giuliano sank into one of the leather armchairs near the window, the dark leather creaking softly under his weight. He'd loosened his tie slightly, a small detail that made him look almost approachable. The way he watched me explore, with that intense focus barely softened by the gentle light, made me feel like the only person in his world.
"Tell me about your father," he said quietly. "Your real father."
The request caught me off guard. I pulled a volume of poetry from the shelf, fingers running over its worn edges. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What was he like? Before the accident?"
My chest tightened at the memory. I sank into the chair opposite him, the poetry book clutched close. "He was... God, this is harder than I thought."
"Take your time."
I traced the book's embossed cover, gathering my thoughts.
"He wasn't perfect. Worked too much, missed some school things. But when he was there, he was really there, you know? Like this one time—I was maybe seven—he had this huge meeting with the port authorities. Really important stuff. But I had strep throat, felt awful. So he brought the whole meeting to our house, set everyone up in his study. Had me wrapped in blankets on this little couch he kept in there, drinking honey tea while they talked shipping routes."
"Sounds like he cared."
"He did. Even when he got sick—cancer, not the heart problems everyone thought it was—he tried to keep things normal. Mom and I would bring books to his hospital room, sit with him while he worked. He always made me feel like I was helping somehow." I traced the book's spine, remembering. "Looking back, I think that's when I really started learning about the business."
"And your mother?"
"She tried her best. But watching someone you love die like that..." I shook my head. "It broke something in her. That's when Vittorio swooped in. He was so careful about it, so strategic. Started with business advice, then lunch meetings that turned into dinner dates. Flowers, little gifts. He even bought me this ridiculous teddy bear—I hated it, but Mom thought it was sweet."
"How old were you?"
"Ten when Dad died. Eleven when they got married. Everything happened so fast. One minute we were grieving, the next we're living in Vittorio's estate and I'm not allowed to use the Divino name anymore." The bitterness crept into my voice. "It all seems so obvious now, but at that time…"
"At the time, you were just kids who'd lost everything." His voice was oddly gentle. "Trust me, I understand about manipulative fathers."
Something in his tone made me look up. "Tell me," I said softly. "About growing up Barbieri."
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "You ever feel like nothing you do will ever be good enough? Like you're constantly chasing this impossible standard?"
"God, yes."
"That's my father. Everything has to be perfect, has to fit his vision of what a Barbieri should be. Take over new territory? Should have done it faster. Make a good deal? Should have gotten better terms. Even now, running half his empire..." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes I catch myself doing things just because I know they'll please him, and I hate myself for it."
"But you still do them."
"Yeah." He gave a harsh laugh. "Pathetic, right? I'm twenty-nine years old, and I'm still that kid desperate for a 'well done' that's never going to come."