Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
"There are no flames of hell so it doesn't really seem like your style," Genesis says, her tone saccharine.
I smile at the insult. "You haven't tried cooking in here yet. You may change your mind about the flames of hell when you're sweating in the tiny kitchen, piccola fiamma."
"Is that your way of saying you're hungry?"
"Starving," I growl, watching her intently. It's the truth, though I'm not talking about food. I want to lay her out on the table and feast on her. Frankly, I don't care if she cooks or cleans or spends every waking moment telling me to go to hell. Hiring her was merely a smokescreen to get her in my space. If she never lifts a finger, I won't complain. She should be pampered, not slaving away. But I like pushing her buttons. I like watching her burn. She reveals more than she realizes when she's pissed.
She tosses her head, disdain flowing through her emerald eyes. "I'll get right on that, Mr. Valentino. Where's the kitchen?"
I lead the way toward the kitchen, chuckling when she mutters under her breath the whole time. She's far too easy to rile, and far too sexy when she's pissed. Getting under her skin takes no effort at all on my part. We both know that's the sexual frustration talking.
She wants me, and she can't stand it.
She stops dead in her tracks when we reach the kitchen. "Your definition of tiny and mine are not the same, Gabriel."
"Your gallows walk just does it for me, tesoro," I say with an unrepentant shrug. "I couldn't resist the opportunity to see it again."
She shoots me a death glare. "What do you want to eat?"
I eye her up and down, smirking. "I don't think it's on the menu tonight, piccola fiamma."
"Fine. I'll decide." She sails past me, her hips swaying in her little yoga pants in a way that's far too enticing.
"I'll make you a deal. You don't have to cook at all if you tell me who you're running from."
She stumbles midstep before she manages to catch herself with a hand on the edge of the granite countertop. "Easy. You," she lies.
"Liar."
"Not all of us have enemies, Gabriel."
"But we all have demons, tesoro."
She busies herself prowling through cabinets instead of responding.
"I can't help you if you don't talk to me."
"Who said I need your help?" she tosses over her shoulder at me. And then she pauses, lifting her head to look at me with distrust and vulnerability stamped in equal measure in her gaze. "Who said I'd ask for it even if I do have enemies?"
I step out to call Rafe while she bangs pots and pans around in the kitchen, muttering under her breath the entire time. I want to demand answers about who she's running from and why, but I have a sneaking suspicion that demanding anything of this woman will get me nowhere fast.
I need a new plan of attack, one that unbalances her instead of getting her back up. Right now, she wants nothing to do with me. That's not going to work for me. I need her trust if I'm ever going to get her truths.
"So, you are still alive," Rafe says as soon as he answers. "We were beginning to wonder."
"You knew exactly where to find me, Rafe," I growl, clenching my hand around the phone. "I didn't see you picking up the goddamn phone either, now did I, big brother?"
"Cristo, Gabe. I was only joking." Rafe pauses, throwing me off guard. We've been dancing around each other for years, refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room, pretending nothing changed between us that night. The truth is everything changed that night.
For a long time, I wanted to hate Rafe. I wanted to blame him. I convinced myself I wouldn't have been out there if he hadn't pushed me. I stopped lying to myself years ago, though. I was tripping down the path toward that same exact outcome long before Rafe demanded I take out Santiago Corleone. If it hadn't been that girl that night, it would have been someone else some other night.
That's not on Rafe. That's on me. But Rafe? He's responsible for everything that came next. He asked Mattia to cover up what I did. An innocent girl died, an innocent man went to prison, and my own goddamn brother let it happen. Because of me. Because he just couldn't fucking let me go.
I don't hate him. But the walls between us have become damn near insurmountable. He used to be my hero—the brother who sacrificed his own freedom to save Nico. The brother who was more a father to me than our own father. Now? I can't even remember the last time we had a real conversation.
It's just one more thing La Cosa Nostra demanded of us. Sacrifice a little, then sacrifice a little more.