Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
By the time we were done, I was actually fucking anxious driving back to her father’s apartment.
Because while we didn’t count it, I had a pretty good idea we were talking millions.
Millions.
No wonder Neeley had been after her.
Her father must have put a big dent in his income.
“I don’t understand why he did this,” Millie said as she stood staring at the kitchen counter where we had piled all of it. “He lived so simply. I mean… look,” she said, waving to the apartment as a whole.
As a whole, she was right.
The place wasn’t fancy. There were high points. His TV was expensive as fuck. So was his laptop and some of the clothes in his closet. As a whole, though, it seemed like the man’s only vice was buying physical media. Mostly movies.
“Impossible to say,” I said. “Could be he just got off on the adrenaline of stealing it and getting away with it for so long. Or maybe he was creating an exit strategy.”
“If he wanted out, why didn’t he go? This is more than he could have needed.”
She was right about that.
“Maybe it was your inheritance,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe he wanted to pay for your wedding, buy you a house, shit like that. That’s what good dads want, right?” I asked. I wouldn’t know from personal experience.
“Maybe,” she said as pain sliced across her eyes. “What do we do with it?”
“What do you mean what do we do with it?” I asked.
“Like… how do we… deal with it?”
“Deal with it?” I repeated.
“Why are you parroting me?” she asked, brows pinching.
“‘Cause you’re not making any sense,” I said. “The fuck do you mean how do you deal with it? It’s money. You… spend it. Save it. The usual shit.”
“What? You think I should take it?”
“The fuck else would you do? Burn it? It’s real money.” I’d checked.
Now, with round eyes, she looked back at the cash, seeing it the way I’d been seeing it.
As opportunities.
As security.
“I don’t… I don’t even know what to do with this much money,” she said. “I… I like simple things.”
That was the damn truth.
“You could use it how your old man likely intended,” I suggested. “Pay for your wedding. Get a place of your own. Maybe start a business.”
She didn’t need to work.
I made more than enough.
But a lot of the mafia wives liked having something on the side for themselves.
“You could get involved with a shelter,” I suggested. “Fuck, you could build your own shelter.”
There wasn’t much in the world, aside from me, that she cared about as much as she did Storm. And the plight of unwanted dogs everywhere. She could take that bleeding heart of hers and do a lot of good with this money.
“That’s true,” she said, eyes brightening. “How much does a condo cost in the city?” she asked. “I mean, you know, one with maybe three or four bedrooms,” she added with a warm little smile, thinking of the future, of kids who looked like us.
I glanced at the pile, then separated it at what seemed like an appropriate size for a condo in Manhattan. Real estate wasn’t cheap.
“Okay,” she said, unfazed. “Good. And a wedding would be, what, this?” she asked, picking a much smaller section.
“Yeah, about,” I agreed, nodding. It was a big family with a lot of mouths to feed.
“That leaves all of this for a small inheritance for each of our future kids,” she decided, splitting off another chunk of it. “And this for rescuing all the puppies,” she said, waving at what was left.
“That looks like a plan,” I agreed.
“It looks like our future,” she corrected, beaming at me.
And so it was.
In part.
Millie - 10 years
“Mills!” Silvano’s voice called from the living room, making me shoot the older two kids a conspiratory wince that had them both giggling. The oldest, a boy. One who looked like the spitting image of his father, save for my smattering of freckles. Dark hair, deep blue eyes. The next, a daughter, was my little mini me. But she had her father’s penchant for keeping things clean. The kid organized her stuffed animals. And ‘deep cleaned’ her dollhouse.
“Guess Daddy found them,” I said, lifting our baby out of the crib. The jury was still out on who he was going to look more like. He was still stubbornly refusing to grow any hair, and his eyes were a deep color that could be called blue. Or gray. Time would tell.
All four of us made our way out of the nursery, ready to confront Silvano’s confusion and likely a small bit of frustration.
I never got sick of our condo.
It had taken me almost a year to find the right one. I found that everything that went up for sale in Manhattan had a modern, sterile-feeling look to it. And there was no way I wanted to leave Silvano’s lovely, homey apartment for an un-homey condo.