Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 73663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Or at least he won’t let them put a bullet in my head.
“Bella topo.” He steps forward. “You’re putting up the walls.”
“I am not.”
“You’re disappearing. Practically shrinking in front of me.”
“Are you surprised? You just told me you’re presenting me at some, like, organized crime gala and at least one person present will be hostile.”
“You can do this. I promise, you can. The Rossi Organization is powerful.”
“I’m sure you are.” I look away, taking deep breaths. I don’t take risks. I never should’ve come here.
Renzo steps closer. “Look at me.”
“Can we just go to work?”
“Look at me, baby.”
I ball my hands into fists, but I stare into his face. He gazes back with real adoration in his expression. It surprises me, but I keep myself schooled and under control.
“You’ll be great,” he says, putting one hand on my hip. The other cups my cheek.
I stay there for longer than I should. His touch feels so good—it’s both comforting and exhilarating—but I force myself to pull away.
“I know that,” I say, brushing past and getting into the car. “Now, can I plug my phone into the stereo?”
He climbs in next to me and the driver pulls out. “Don’t tell me.”
“Whale song. For the ride.”
“I prefer silence.”
“Why? Are you thinking very deep thoughts?”
His jaw works. I annoyed him. I like that. “Yes, I am. Extremely deep.” He leans closer. “Deep like the ocean.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t really want to listen to whale songs, okay? Just a normal playlist.”
He considers, clearly not happy with the idea, but he relents, and I spend the drive to work singing along with Taylor Swift, enjoying how much it pisses off my future husband.
Chapter 17
Maddie
Itry to act like everything’s completely normal, even if it’s not.
Nobody at the office treats me any differently—as far as I can tell, none of them know about my relationship with Renzo—but it’s all I can think about.
His lips, his hands on my lips, the way he looks at me.
His words the night before as he got me off.
None of this makes sense. It’s not rational, it’s not possible, and yet here I am spiraling into this guy like a total idiot. I need to shut it down, but I haven’t figured out how yet.
Around midday, Dante shows up with a boxed lunch. “Courtesy of the chef,” he says with a wink. “Also, Renzo sends his regards, but he had to head home to deal with an emergency.”
“Oh, okay, sure. No problem.” I glance in the direction of his office, strangely disappointed.
“I’ll be around in case you need anything.”
“Do you work here now?” I ask, slightly startled.
But Dante only laughs. “Nah. It’s just that we can’t leave the Don’s wife unaccompanied. Even if you two aren’t married yet.” He raps a knuckle on my desk before walking off.
The Don’s wife…
I spend all day thinking about those words and their implication.
Renzo’s important, which means I’m important, which means Dante isn’t here as a chaperone—he’s here as a guard.
Because Renzo’s enemies might want to hurt him through me.
I put my headphones on and try to focus on the music. All my life, music’s been the one thing I could turn to for comfort. When the bad stuff went down, my parents sent me to this psychologist, a really nice lady named Joyce. She talked to me like I was an actual person and not just some little kid, and she ended up suggesting all these bands I’d never heard of: Earth, Wind, and Fire, The Three Sounds, James Brown, Sam Cooke, Curtis Mayfield. Music became my escape from the guilt.
My sessions with Joyce didn’t last. My dad lost his job and our insurance changed when he got a new one, and they couldn’t afford the sessions anymore. I developed other defense mechanisms, coping habits, stuff I’m sure Joyce would’ve tried to help me work through, but the music stuck.
I’m listening to some smooth-as-silk Smokey Robinson when Nicole calls. I pause the song and answer. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, good, you’re still alive.” She sounds genuinely relieved.
“You thought I was dead?”
“I’m going to be honest here and admit I thought about calling the police more than once.”
“I’m fine, seriously, no need to have the cops on speed dial.”
“Relax, it’s just 911.” She laughs but I can tell it’s forced. “Seriously, Maddie, how are you?”
“Seriously, I’m good. His chef made me lunch.”
“His chef… made you lunch. That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d hear you say.”
“It’s pretty amazing too. Like restaurant quality.”
“Great, the food’s good and he’s not starving you, that’s one less thing to worry about.”
“Honestly, it’s kind of everything. Imagine having a freaking private chef.” I lean back in my chair, smiling to myself. “It’s the dream.”
“Aside from the chef, how are you?”
“Well, he was pissed about my whale sounds—”
“You let him hear the whales? Wow, big steps.”