Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I shake my head.
"Then one last thing, signorina."
If he calls me that one more time, I think I'm going to start smashing plates. I can't explain why, but I just hate it.
"While those of our world are obviously aware of the betrothal between our famiglie, you are free to disclose, deny, or say anything you wish to those who are not."
What the hell does that mean?
Is he telling me I'm free to date other guys as long as they're not famiglia?
But if that's the case—-does this go both ways?
Am I supposed to simply turn a blind eye if I find out he's also dating other women?
Should I even care if he is?
Five Years Ago
Groom
"I'M SORRY ABOUT HAVING to miss your birthday again," Maryse says with a rueful shake of her head. "I'd have delayed giving birth if I could, but my son has unfortunately inherited my impatience."
"Oh, just admit it," I scoff. "You avoid attending famiglia occasions like the plague. You don't want people to tease you about being a barefoot contessa, literally."
Maryse only rolls her eyes, and this alone says a lot. A few years ago, such a joke would have me either thrown in one of the secret dungeons of La Torre...or chopped in pieces, also in La Torre, of course.
A nurse takes my gift basket off my hands while Maryse gestures for me to take one of the chairs next to her bed.
"Everything good with your newborn?" I ask awkwardly.
Maryse laughs. "Almost three years with the Marchettis, and you still have a hard time making small talk?"
"It's not as easy—-"
"You only say that because you're still insecure," she dismisses.
I let out a gasp. "I am not—-"
Maryse wags a finger at me. "You may have all the others fooled, but not me. I still remember the look in your eyes when you woke up in La Torre."
"Try putting yourself in my shoes," I retort, "and imagine what you'd feel waking up to the sight of a real-life Grim Reaper—-"
"You know what I mean, Sarica. And what bothers me even more is how I still catch glimpses of it in your eyes...every time you talk about the Marchettis."
Fuck.
Three years of living with the Marchettis also means I've been friends with the former Angel of Death for the same length of time. And even to this day, not once have her words missed its mark.
"What is it this time?" Maryse asks soberly. "Two years ago, you told me they didn't care enough. But I know it's no longer like that. So what's holding you back now?"
"This visit is supposed to be about you," I hedge.
"It should be about me," Maryse agrees in a huff, "so hurry up and just tell me what's bothering you this time. And for the record—-I'm going to bet it's another silly thing again."
I know she's baiting me, dammit, but I just can't help falling for it still, hook, line, and sinker. "It's not silly—-"
Her expression turns smug. "But you still admit to having gotten your panties twisted, yes?"
Grrrr.
"No."
"Oh, please. You've good as admitted it already, so just spit it out."
She crosses her arms over her chest while speaking, and when she raises a brow at me, it's that look on her face again, and I'm done for.
Shit.
Every time she slips back into her old-Angel-of-Death-mode, it feels just like old times. She's Mr. Miyagi once more to my Julie, and even though she's the one on the hospital bed, it suddenly feels like I'm the patient between the two of us as the words come tumbling out.
"I just don't get him. It's almost been three years," I mutter, "but nothing's changed."
The other woman frowns. "That can't be true. They've made it clear you're not a burden. They've already shown you—-"
"I get that," I interrupt impatiently, "but I don't get him. I don't understand what he's thinking. Or what he wants."
Maryse looks at me blankly. "You've lost me."
"He makes sure we're seated next to each other during mealtimes."
"And?"
My lip curls. "And that's it, exactly. Those are the only times we talk. It's like I don't exist for him outside the fucking dining room."
"And that matters to you?"
"I know what you're thinking," I say with a scowl, "and it's not that."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't have a fucking crush on him."
"Then why do you care if he doesn't talk to you—-"
"Because I want to start helping him now," I burst out. "I just want him to really talk to me so I can stop feeling useless and start feeling useful. Because otherwise..."
Fear and shame might still get the better of me one day, and my stupid pride will end up forcing me to run away.
And I don't want that.
But I'm scared if nothing still changes then—-
"Don't cry."
It's that tone again, and it's exactly what I need to get a grip on myself.