Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I always thought Rachele was self-assured and feisty. I wrote a lot of her bitchiness off to admirable traits. Yet now that I’ve discovered the softer side of a woman, I find that I’m more attracted to the gentleness and caring side of Anya. Her compassion and generosity are more precious to me than a good surname and the face of a beauty queen.
Admittedly, it doesn’t hurt that Anya is the most exquisite being I’ve seen. If Rachele is an ice queen, Anya is a sun goddess. It’s wrong to compare them. I refuse to submit Anya to such unfair treatment. It’s just impossible not to notice the differences.
Anya brings out the protective side of me, which is something I need. I love to take care of her, not that she needs taking care of. She survived a life of violence and abuse. That makes her the strongest woman I know. Yet she somehow managed to retain the goodness inside her, something few people in her position would’ve achieved.
I’m drawn to her for all those reasons and for others I can’t explain. All I know is that there’s only Anya for me now, Anya and her baby, a baby I long since claimed as my own.
A spark of possessiveness ignites in my chest at the thought of the mother and baby. When it comes to them, my soul knows only one word.
Mine.
I pause in front of the library and turn to face Dante. My tone leaves no guessing about how fucking serious I am about this. “I’m with Anya now. I’m not leaving her. Ever.”
“’Kay,” he says, raising his palms. “I was just wondering where you stood on the matter.” He grins. “Because if she ever became free game, I’d—”
I point a finger in his face. “Stop right the fuck there or I’ll break a rule and kill you on this fucking spot.”
“’Kay,” he says again with a smirk.
Fucking dick. He knows how to rile me up. Probably gets a kick out of it too.
Schooling my features, I grab the door handle and prepare myself to walk into the snake pit.
I push open the door to find the family men gathered around the fireplace where an electric fire shoots orange flames over a flatscreen. Artificial as shit.
Stefano sits in his wheelchair in front of the digital display, an oxygen mask strapped over his face and his skeletal legs hidden under a blanket. Luigi stands next to him, puffing on a cigar. Smoking around Stefano says a lot about Luigi’s concern for his brother’s health. Raphael sits on the white designer sofa facing the group. His father, Michele, flanks him on the right, and Giorgio sits on his left.
Giorgio catches my gaze when I enter.
Dante closes the door.
“About time,” Luigi says in a jovial tone, motioning for Antonio to pour the drinks.
Antonio breaks the seal of a ten thousand-dollar bottle of cognac. It’s customary to open the bottle in front of all the men participating in the toast. Poisoning is still a popular method of eliminating rivals. Just because the unwritten law states no man will draw blood at a wedding, it doesn’t mean someone won’t slip arsenic into your drink.
Dante takes up a position at my side, eyeing Michele’s men on the left who equals Luigi’s men in number on the right.
When Antonio has handed the glasses around, Luigi raises his. As Stefano can’t speak, it’s up to Luigi to make the toast.
“Today is a memorable day,” Luigi says, dipping his head and looking Raphael in the eyes. “Two great families will join forces. There’ll be no wealthier or more powerful organization than the Bianchis and the Morellis put together. Let’s drink on a bond that will be made in blood.”
A few wolf whistles follow.
Raphael smirks at the mention of taking his bride’s virginity tonight.
Motherfucker. It doesn’t show much respect for his future wife.
The bloody sheet will be presented to both sides of the family soon after the married couple have retired to their room.
Even if Rachele had been a virgin when I bedded her on our wedding night, I never would’ve submitted her to the humiliation. Raphael, on the other hand, seems to have no qualms about fucking his wife upstairs while a bunch of old men wait in the library to see proof of the consummation of the union. Us men get a choice. We can either accept or decline. The women are not so lucky. They’re stuck with whatever the groom decides.
Everyone watches Raphael with perverse expectation.
He accepts with a nod, making me respect him less and hate him more.
Luigi throws back his head and downs his drink, which is the cue for the others to follow. If you ask me, it’s a waste of a perfectly good and rare cognac that needs to be sipped in a warmed glass to release the vanilla and lime blossom aromas.