Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
"I don't know what I prefer," I say helplessly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was leading a normal, ordinary life. Then you suddenly show up, telling me I'm in danger because I'm related to a mafia—-" I break off when I notice his lips tighten. "What is it?"
"It's nothing."
"It looks something."
"It's the word you use," he says reluctantly. "Mafia."
I'm fascinated with the way this term actually makes him wince.
"We do not call ourselves that. We prefer something else."
"Oh, so like, boy bands are now like boy—-" I stop myself in time when I realize how close I am to having my neck snapped by the man currently glaring at me. Right. Comparing big, bad wolves like Gabriele to boy bands was not exactly the smartest thing to say, was it?
I clear my throat. "So, um, what's the more politically correct term for, um—-"
Mob bosses? Organized crime lords? Outlaw?
"—-people in your world?"
His lips tighten again, and I don't know what to make of this—
"Famiglia."
—until I hear it for myself. I even remember him using it in passing in the past, but it's only now, with the strained silence between us, that the weight this word carries becomes all too clear.
Famiglia means family. And in their world, blood is a good enough reason to kill, a good enough reason to die for. Famiglia also means when one claims a wife, it's an unbreakable bond, for better or for worse, till death do them part.
"I know it's a lot to process."
That might be the understatement of the century.
"Can I...can I take a walk outside?" I ask awkwardly. I just need some time and space—
"I'll join you."
—from him, but of course I can't tell him that now.
I follow Gabriele through glass doors onto a stone terrace that wraps around the side of the house. Comfortable seating is arranged to maximize the view, and the ocean stretches endlessly before us, waves catching the morning light.
Gabriele keeps a careful distance between us as we stand at the railing, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and earth. He seems more relaxed out here, as if the open space eases something tight within him.
"Do you have any idea who wants me dead?"
"There's a good probability it's Valentina, your father's younger sister."
"And my aunt."
"Another unfortunate thing about our world? Money may also be thicker than blood."
I take a deep breath, facing the reality of my situation with as much clarity as I can muster. My old life is gone—that much is certain. Whether I accept his proposal or not, I can never go back to being just Kleah Martell, artisan with a quiet shop and a simple life.
The question is what comes next.
"I need something from you," I say without turning.
"Name it."
"Honesty. Complete honesty. No matter how ugly or difficult the truth might be." I turn to face him. "I can't navigate this world if I'm working with partial information. I need to know what I'm facing, always."
He studies me, his expression unreadable. "That level of honesty comes with its own dangers."
"I'll take my chances."
"Very well." He inclines his head slightly. "Honesty, then. In return, I require obedience in matters of security. Without question, without hesitation."
The word 'obedience' bristles against my independent nature, but I understand the necessity. In matters of life and death, there's no time for debate.
"Agreed," I say, "but only for security. Nothing else."
"Nothing else," he confirms.
We stand there, the wind and waves the only sound between us, this strange bargain hanging in the air.
"I'll marry you," I say finally, the words both surrender and declaration. "But you...you can't—you won't touch me unless I ask."
GABRIELE
Her words are clear, firm—a boundary drawn in the sand between us. I should be relieved. Complications of desire have no place in what must be a strategic alliance. And yet, something in me resists the limitation, chafes against it.
Not because I want to force her—the very thought is repulsive—but because she speaks as if proximity to me is something to be endured rather than desired.
Pride. A foolish reaction when survival is at stake.
"Agreed," I say, my voice betraying none of my inner thoughts. "Your body is your own. Always."
Relief softens her features, and I wonder what she expected from me. What stories has she heard about men like me? What fears keep her awake in the marble and silk sanctuary I've provided?
"I'll have papers drawn up today," I tell her. "The ceremony can be private, discreet. Just the necessary legal witnesses."
She nods, her gaze returning to the dark expanse of water below us. The morning light catches in her hair, turning the brown strands copper at the edges. She looks ethereal, untouchable—and yet so very human in her vulnerability.
"What happens after?" she asks, her voice almost lost in the sound of waves. "After we're married. Where do we go? What do we do?"