Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
It's as if everyone expects him to act like a beast just because he's called one.
They clearly think he's the type to beat up anyone foolish anyone to block his path.
But that can't be true since my grandmother would never make me marry such a man.
Right?
The thought has me wanting to look for Nonna, but it's just too late.
Because he's already standing in front of me, and I...I...I don't know what to do!
Please help me, God!
The Beast of New York looms over me, and my mind instantly scrambles to absorb everything about him in seconds.
Tall, he's so, so tall.
Maybe six-seven? Or six-eight?
And broad, so broad.
I've never seen such broad, broad shoulders, and with the four brothers I have, that's saying a lot, and ooooh.
His eyes.
Green.
They're green.
Is that good or bad?
The Beast of New York has green eyes.
I've read over a hundred articles about him, and not one has mentioned this.
Not one!
My mind finds such negligence appalling for some reason, and my confusion only grows the longer he stares at me.
Are you scared, self?
The answer to this is immediate.
Absolutely!
Because every lethally powerful inch of him exudes horror-movie vibes, and it makes me want to run away and never look back.
But is that all, self?
My heart sinks to my stomach.
Or are you also...excited?
And I'm all messed up from within when I realize the truth.
Yes, oh, yes.
He scares me as much as he excites me.
But I don't know if that's a good thing.
Not when I suspect my grandmother of blackmailing him into claiming me as his bride.
Journal Entry
I know this is going to sound so, so silly.
But I heard so much from his silence.
The longer he stood in front of me, the more I heard.
The more I understood.
I know this is going to sound even sillier.
But it was as if our souls were speaking.
And I knew it was only a matter of time before the rest of us followed.
Our bodies. Our minds. Our hearts.
THE MARCHETTIS' MAUSOLEUM was everything he expected. Everything was in white. Everything was made of marble. And gargoyles were everywhere.
(What was it with this famiglia and gargoyles?)
All eyes turned to him as soon as he entered. But Lorenzo was used to being stared at, and so he was unaffected by the hostility in most people's gazes.
The only thing he cared about, he found right away, and that was her.
A slip of a girl whose dark hair was pinned back by a pair of barrettes, her slender frame made more fragile by the loose gossamer fit of her dress and the sleek gloss of her three-inch heels.
Gazelle...
Lorenzo stared at her, and the girl stared back at him soberly.
As expected from a Marchetti...
Boston's most powerful famiglia was called many things by both its friends and enemies, but 'coward' was not one of them.
Ever.
And he had always known this about the Marchettis, except...
I was wrong about her.
Lorenzo now realized he had been guilty of prematurely judging La Strega's youngest and least-known grandchild.
He, too, had heard the rumors about 20-year-old Gazelle being her famiglia's Achilles' heel, but he should have known better than to give credence to them.
He himself was a victim of rumors, and with every year that passed, the stories that people made up about him had only grown more sickening and outrageous.
A clean slate then, Lorenzo decided as he came to a stop before his bride. From this point forward, whatever he was to hear about her from others, he would discard. And while it would be ideal if she were willing to do the same for him, that was more likely to happen if she at least knew they were already married.
But did she, though?
Lorenzo stared down at her broodingly, and still she did not look away.
Two years.
She had been his for the taking for two years already.
But in those two years, he had not spared her a single thought.
He had his life, and she had hers.
He had assumed she would understand.
Or even prefer that he had not come to claim her.
But when he looked at her now, it was strangely impossible to tell.
Lorenzo had never seen eyes such as hers, which was a bewitching mix of brilliantly blue skies and ghostly gray clouds.
Eyes that had the makings of a perfect storm...
But as soon as the thought formed in his head, he rejected it right away.
Get a fucking grip, Anghileri.
Because words that were lovely and poetic no longer belonged to a monster like him.
Journal Entry
It makes me sad that I can't read his eyes.
Will this change as time passes?
Or does love have to blossom first?
WHY IS HE STILL STARING at me?
And why can't I look away?
It feels so wrong to have such conflicting feelings for another man at Giancarlo's funeral. But at the same time, a part of me also welcomes it.
(Because Giancarlo's still alive!)
I smile at Lorenzo. I want to act like normal.