Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
She grins back. "We're in the home of Tosca Rossi," she says with meaning. “Believe me when I tell you there is plenty of time to plan a party.” She grins at Tosca. “Right?"
"Are you kidding me? I live to throw parties. Italian is in my blood. In another life I was a wedding planner." Great.
I look to Sergio for help, but the bastard has the nerve to look amused again.
"Perhaps we can come up with a compromise," he says gently, obviously softening in his old age because old Sergio would have just laid the law down and had my back. Goddamn, is this what getting married can do to you?
"And what might a compromise be?"
He smiles and takes another sip of his drink. "No more than fifty guests. Remember, we need to spread the news of this and if I make a call, you’ll have a dinner party later tonight."
Motherfucker. Fifty guests?
Quinn gives me a sickly smile, the kind that doesn't reach her eyes but hints at craftiness. "Thank you, Sergio. I don't really want any guests. I just want a nice gown and some really good food. Who knows what this guy is going to do to me once I’m wed to him? I might as well live my life when I can. YOLO, you know?"
Eden’s lips twitch, and she might be laughing, but I can't quite tell because she’s put a napkin to her mouth. Nonna’s back from the kitchen. "What is… YOLO?" she says.
I blow out a breath. "You only live once." I roll my eyes.
It's not true, though. It's a lie, because any one of my brothers will tell you, you live many lives before you die.
I'm just about to start my new one.
CHAPTER THREE
“THAT’S A LOT OF ZEROS.”
Quinn
The next morning I stare at myself in the mirror. “I look like I’m wearing a Halloween costume.”
I insisted on an expensive dress only because I wanna punish the asshole. It's not my fault I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and nobody ever said that he had to hurt me.
But for some reason he only shrugged when I told him the dress was ten thousand dollars. I mean, I didn't tell him. Eden told Sergio who told Adriano, but I saw it from a distance, up in the loft where Eden and I were. I watched Adriano's reaction because I wanted to see him do something—spit out his wine or swear or break something. But no. He looked as calm as always. As calm as he did when he killed that guy. As calm as he was when he put his gun away and started walking down the street ready to track me. He doesn't seem fazed by anything.
I look damn good in this dress, though. Worth it.
Eden stands behind me and adjusts her sweet little Angelica on her hip with one hand and the little straps that hold the dress up with the other.
“These straps are just for show. My boobs are doing the heavy lifting, so don’t worry too much about them. Also, I don’t get something. He didn’t care that this dress cost ten thousand dollars,” I say to her. “Why?”
Eden shakes her head. “Well, money isn’t really a thing here. It’s hard to believe when we come from situations like you and I have, but money doesn't even bother them.”
“What do you mean?"
"I guess billionaires just don't get stressed about money," she says, and laughs. “I mean, think about how long it took me to save a hundred dollars to get my ticket to come up here." She shakes her head. “It's unreal."
I stare at her. I stare at the dress. “Billionaires. That is a lot of… zeroes.” That might be nice. “So. Um… what do you think sleeping arrangements are going to be?"
Eden blushes. The woman is married to Sergio Montavio and has even borne his child, so believe me, she's no virgin. I swear she’ll be embarrassed about sex until she’s old and gray.
“So you still haven't gotten over that yet, huh?"
She shakes her head. "Nope. And I have no idea what the sleeping arrangements are going to be, but I do know that if you're married to him…" She bites her lip, not finishing the sentence.
"Eden,” I say warningly. “What?"
"Well, he’ll either expect that you’re going to consummate the marriage, or he’ll take a mistress. There's no way a guy like him will be voluntarily celibate."
“Consummate the marriage” is such a polite way of saying “fuck.”
Suddenly, the choices in front of me seem a lot more dire than I thought. Sleep with a murderer I don't love, or let him take a mistress?
What have I gotten myself into?
“What about the club? Am I going to get to play at the club?" I'm not a crier, but my voice breaks at the end. I rely on sessions at the club like some people rely on medication.