Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
As he holds me in place, I’m vividly aware of the way his muscles ripple under the shirt he wears, the way his broad shoulders fill his suit coat. It doesn’t take much to imagine being pinned under him, while he—
“I’d think Regazza’s daughter would know better than to mouth off to someone who’s bigger, stronger, and more powerful than she is.”
Oh fuck off.
“Bigger, yes. How nice of you to point that out. Some of you like to chew bricks for breakfast and spit them out, but I’m not much of a breakfast eater. Stronger, of course, you have biology on your side, don’t you?” The skin on my face tightens when his fingers constrict my windpipe by a sliver, enough to make it harder to breathe. I draw in a staggering breath. “But more powerful? Don’t fool yourself, handsome. Those who need to brag about their power aren’t as strong as they think, are they?” I gasp, my voice high and reedy, but I press on. “Machiavelli once said the measure of a man is what he does with power.”
If there was anything I learned while observing my father, it was that people who are powerful don’t need to call themselves powerful.
Asshole.
A cold smile plays on his lips so briefly, I wonder if I imagine it.
“Aren’t you clever. Machiavelli, is it? He also said that never was anything great achieved without danger. So you learned nothing from your father? Perfect. Just what I needed. A wife I need to train from the ground up.”
Ooooh, he knows how to push those buttons good and hard. I want to slap his beautiful, arrogant face and teach him what male chauvinism gets him.
“I learned how to buck up, buttercup,” I snap, barely containing my rage. “I learned—” I can’t talk anymore. The air in my lungs freezes when his hand clenches harder. I gasp for breath and smack at his hands. Stars blur my vision, the room spins, and I have the stark, terrifying realization that he’s choking me to death just seconds before he releases my throat. He holds me pinned in place, gasping for air.
His mouth comes to my ear. “When I tell you to be quiet, I fucking mean it. Do that again, and I’ll gag you all motherfucking day. Now take my hand and walk with me, like we’re two lovers going to bed, and not a prisoner about to face punishment from her captor. Got it?”
I nod, still unable to speak. When he releases my throat, I stagger. Tears spill onto my cheeks, but I turn away and swipe at them angrily so he doesn’t see. I stand and walk with him, my head hung low.
I hate him so much it makes me cry.
Somehow, he opens the door. I don’t watch. There’s a series of codes and locks and clicks, but I don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
The door slams behind us.
“Strip,” he grates. “Take all your fucking clothes off and leave them by the door.”
Right, like I don’t know what strip means. He continues, seemingly oblivious to the vitriol I’m mentally castigating him with. “When I come back out here, I want you bent over the arm of that couch, hands in front of you, palms down. You have sixty seconds.”
And then he’s gone. I turn in the direction of a door that just clicked shut and blink.
Where am I?
Where did he just go?
I glance around, acutely conscious of the downward clicking of the timeline he just gave me.
I’m in a sitting room of sorts, and beyond where I’m standing there’s a kitchenette, a desk and bookcase, and several closed doors. The one on the left is the one he just entered, and the one on the right is still shut.
Bathroom? Bedroom? Office?
But why would he have an office if the desk and bookcase are out here…
I remember with a sudden tripping of my heart that he gave me sixty seconds. I probably have thirty left, and I think this is probably not a hill to die on.
I tear off my clothes and leave them in a heap by the door. Whatever.
There’s a dark, chocolate-brown leather sofa and matching armchair in the living room. He wants me bent over the arm of the couch.
Lovely.
He could do damn near anything to me in that position and he probably will.
Before today, he’s barely touched me. I doubt he’ll fuck me, not now, not when there are four weeks left to the wedding. Traditionally, in an Italian mafia wedding the marriage is consummated on the wedding night, or is supposed to be, anyway.
I flounce naked over to the couch, glad that at least Tavi can’t take my virginity.
It’s the one thing I gave Piero that could’ve killed him even before his betrayal did, the one act of treachery my father never found out about. It’s my secret. My dirty, painful secret.