Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
I hate my bridegroom.
There, I’ve said it.
I hate him with a ferocious passion.
I loathe everything about him. His insufferable arrogance, his mocking smile, his dangerously glinting gunmetal-gray eyes, and his corrupt vicious heart. The way everyone pathetically defers to his every word and rushes to serve him as if he is some kind of god irritates the hell out of me. But even worse, I hate the shameful way my body responds to his. I tremble for him. The intensity of my raw desire shocks and repulses me. How can I possibly want him this desperately when I hate him so much?
It is as if he is the devil himself and he has cast a spell on me.
It was not my choice to be born a Mafia daughter, but I chose to be a Mafia wife. After my father’s death, my grandfather was too old and vulnerable to defend our family from my father’s enemies. And the only way to secure our survival was for me to marry the head of the powerful Barone clan. My dowry is a piece of land coveted by the Don himself. To him it is worth billions… once he develops it.
My mother says I will find peace eventually, but how can I, when I love Thomas? Thomas is a decent man. He doesn’t sit on an empire of plunder and theft. He wants to heal the world. I imagined us doing good together, and I’m not giving up on my wonderful dream.
The cravings of my body betray me at every turn, but they will not stop me. I will find a way to end this marriage.
Soon, my dear husband will find out... releasing me is his only option, or ours will be a marriage made in hell.
This I vow...
This Is A full length Standalone, Enemies To Lovers Romance, With As Much Heat And Drama As The Heart Could Desire.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
FRANCESCA
This is a sham.
A freaking deception.
We are desecrating the house of God.
These are the wild thoughts running through my mind as my grandfather, Nonno Franco Barbieri, walks me down the aisle. The ancient cathedral is bathed in a soft golden glow from the sun’s rays streaming through the stained-glass windows. The lofty pillars are decorated with thousands upon thousands of fresh flowers flown in from all over the world. Of special note is the magnificent Madagascan purple orchid arrangement behind the priest.
The wooden pews are packed with dignified people dressed in shades of pastel. Their hushed whispers of anticipation rise into the air and mix with the soft strains of music from the choir standing at the back of the altar.
Nonno and I approach the altar with small, demure steps. Nonno’s back is proud and erect as he calmly walks me up the aisle, while I feel as if my whole life is falling apart and my stomach is churning so violently, I’m sure I’m going to be sick right here in front of everybody.
I lift my eyes and surreptitiously glance on either side of me.
I recognize almost none of the faces I see on my left, but on the right are the happy smiling expressions from my side of the family. Except Mama, who is sitting in the front row, clutching her pink Dior bag. Through my lacy veil, I see the strain on her face. She’s the only one whose smile isn’t wide enough to break her face in half. She is the only one, other than me, who is truthful enough to admit that this marriage is a shameless sham.
As a little girl, I dreamed of the perfect wedding. My great-grandmother’s Romanian gypsy blood runs in my veins, so I saw myself in a big, white, meringue-style wedding gown. My veil was so long it trailed for yards behind me as I walked up the aisle sprinkled with wild flowers to wed a dreamily handsome prince who would cherish me forever.
My wedding is a caricature of my innocent dream.
And I will never forgive all the people who made today a reality.
Especially the tall dark man waiting for me at the altar.
You see, everything is exactly the way I dreamed it: the breathtaking beauty of the church, the decorations, the gorgeous reception that I know is going to steal everyone’s breath away. My pearl-encrusted dress is the price of a three-bedroom house in a good neighborhood. Yes, I deliberately chose one that is so exorbitantly expensive my bridegroom will be forced to understand that I’m either rebelling against him, or he has made a terrible mistake and agreed to marry the worst kind of spoiled brat that ever walked this earth. But all that trouble I went to was for nothing. The bastard is so wealthy he did not even notice.
I think you get the picture by now.
Everything is perfect except for the man.
Valentino Barone.
Instead of standing with his back to me like every other freaking bridegroom, he breaks tradition and stands facing me. Over six feet tall, his hands clasped in front of him, he watches me with a laser-like focus. But his stare is dead, like the man himself. At first, the desolation and lack of life in his eyes scared me. Now it infuriates me that I will be shackled to him without reparations for the rest of my life.
No, this cannot be.
I find myself totally unable to accept that we will be husband and wife even as I am led towards the altar.
Incredible, right? Foolish? Asinine?
Maybe, but I have to hold on to the hope that there has to be a way out. I have accepted the fact that unless there is an act of God, a sudden tornado, or a terrible earthquake, I will lose the battle today and be forced to marry him… but one battle doesn’t make a war. An unconsummated marriage can be annulled. I refuse to stay married to Valentino.
Not when I am in love with Thomas!
We reach the end of the aisle, and Nonno gives me over to Valentino. He takes my hand, and I expect worms to automatically begin crawling under my skin. But no! Through my ivory-colored silk gloves, his touch burns, searing my skin until it feels as if the fabric will melt underneath his fire. When he releases my hand, I drag in a breath and rub the spot where he had held me.
It’s okay, I console myself. Of course, his touch will burn.
He might look like an ice-cold, heartless sculpture, but he is the devil himself. What bothers me though is the strange, undeniable pull between my thighs when he touches me. I tell myself it is simply nerves and fury. But I’ve been nervous and furious many times in my life and never felt such a thing. Must be a bride thing. All brides must experience this.