Cruel Tyrant Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
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“No, Davide’s not home.” Luckily for us since I’m not sure how my husband would’ve reacted. “What were you thinking, Giorgia?”

“I was worried about my best friend, okay! And honestly, I was feeling guilty as fuck after our last conversation, and this whole marriage thing is bizarre and so weird, and I just had to come out and make sure that you weren’t like kidnapped or abused or whatever. And I miss you.”

She’s blinking rapidly and about to cry, but I’m feeling a big old lump in my throat too.

Because she cared enough to drop everything. She flew out here armed with nothing more than a hunch and an address, all because she’s my best friend and she wanted to make sure I was okay. That’s a hell of a lot more than my family has done so far; I can’t even remember the last time any of them called.

I pull her into a tight hug. My homesickness comes back with a vengeance, and maybe this visit is going to undo some of the progress I’ve made recently, but to hell with that.

“I missed you too,” I say, squeezing her hard. “You’re so insane and I really don’t love the invasion of privacy, but I love you, okay?”

“I love you even more. I’m sorry I’m insane. I just had to know if you’re okay.” She wipes her eyes and leans back to look at me. “You’re okay, right?”

“I’m okay.” I smile so she knows I’m not faking it. “I’m really okay.”

“Good.” She lets out a breath. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

I laugh, grab her bag, and take her by the hand. “Come on, let me show you my house. Fair warning, it’s weird.” I tug her along, leading her down the block.

“Weird, how? Your husband’s into, like, sex dungeon shit?”

“Not that I know of. No, it’s more that we have an open floor plan. Like… extremely open.”

“Interesting.” Her eyebrows raise. “And intriguing.”

“Come on, crazy.” I slip my arm through hers. “We have a lot to discuss.”

Chapter 27

Stefania

Two bottles of prosecco and a grand tour of the house later, we’re sitting out back with our feet on the table talking like nothing’s changed. There’s a big old aching pit in my stomach now, a tugging and yearning for home, but it’s also a freaking miracle that she’s here.

“You’ve been dancing around it all night,” she says, and I can tell she’s drunk because her ears are red.

I can tell I’m drunk because I’ve had an entire bottle of prosecco to myself and I suddenly want to go to karaoke.

“Dancing around what exactly?”

She leans forward, eyebrows waggling, drink tilting back and forth dangerously. “How do you feel about him? I mean, really, how do you feel?”

Yep, that’s the question I’ve been dancing around.

I don’t respond right away because I’m not sure what to say. There are a million answers to that extremely simple, presumably very obvious question. It shouldn’t be something I’m unsure about.

Except I am beyond conflicted.

I have feelings for him. Very positive feelings. The sort of big, emotional feelings that act as the sturdy foundations of a long-lasting relationship. I also enjoy the sex. He is really good at sex.

But I’m also aware that we’re stuck in this marriage together and neither of us chose the other, and I don’t know if I feel this way because the sex is so good—seriously, the man can bone down—or if I’d feel this way regardless of whether we were humping like sex-starved rabbits on the nightly.

I stare into my glass and take a big, deep breath, really gathering all my air and mustering my courage, before saying, “He’s really almost nice to me and I like that.”

Giorgia stares. I stare back. Then she bursts out laughing. “He’s almost nice? What the fuck, Stef? You’re not supposed to use the word almost to modify nice. Like, that’s a big thing. He can be extremely nice, or super nice, or really, really nice, but not almost nice. What is the matter with you?”

My cheeks turn red, and I realize I just skipped about fifty hours of conversation and explanation, which is why that doesn’t make any sense. “He’s nice,” I say but Giorgia’s not buying it. “Seriously, he cares about my needs. I mean, he’s big and brooding and kind of moody, like there’s something eating at him that he won’t talk about⁠—”

“Stefania!” she shrieks, her chair tipping back. She nearly falls over, she’s laughing so hard. “That doesn’t sound like a very positive description! Holy shit! It sounds like you’re a prison groupie trying to justify her marriage to a serial killer.”

I groan and put my face in my hands. “You’re just being cruel now.”

“No, no, I’m not, I swear,” she says, gasping for air and wiping her eyes. “No, girl, I’m so sorry, I’ll stop laughing. I’ll almost stop laughing.” Then she howls again.


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