Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Her eyes were still riveted on the screen, but her words pierced through me. The game offered her more freedom than she had in her own life, which was pathetic.
I let her play about another half hour, but then I had a conference call with a colleague.
“Thank you,” she said before I left. “Can I play again sometime?”
“Of course.”
Throughout the call, I kept thinking about Leila. It was criminal the way her parents had sheltered her—and now Massimo was doing the same thing.
He’d made it quite clear that Carmine and I had little say when it came to his fiancé. But it didn’t sit right with me.
Later that afternoon I went looking for her, but she wasn’t in her room. Or the parlor. Or the library. I even jogged down to the gym, in case she’d gone down there to check it out.
The man at the front door confirmed she hadn’t gone out, but I was getting worried maybe she’d slipped out another door. Massimo would kill me if she wandered off on my watch.
Just when I was reluctantly about to call him, I thought of something: the flashlight. And then the way she’d asked me if there were any other parts of the house I hung out in—or used to.
I climbed the steps to the third floor. When we were kids, Massimo, Carmine, and I had claimed most of the third floor for ourselves. And one spot in particular … a place we’d been convinced no one else knew about it.
Approaching the bathroom at the end of the hall, I wondered if I’d find her there. The little door was smaller than I remembered it, but it opened easily. The light from the bathroom showed Leila lying on a pile of blankets, like a little bird in a nest.
She was sound asleep, the flashlight clutched in her hand.
I watched her the way her hair had feathered across her face and the way her chest rose and fell in even breaths for far too long. Until I remembered that I had a job to do—and that she belonged to someone else.
9
LEILA
Stefano was far too modest. His game was wonderful. It was true I hadn’t ever played a videogame, except once when I’d convinced a bodyguard to let me try something called Tetris on his phone. Stefano’s game was far more interesting.
He set me up on a computer across from his the next time I played it. It was frustrating to finally have access to a computer and not be able to use it freely, but I didn’t want to betray his trust by doing anything else besides the game. Besides, I didn’t even know how to switch out of the game and back to a regular website. I hated the fact that I knew how to do so little with a computer, but when I was playing Stefano’s game, it was easy to forget that.
It was just so cool to explore the city he’d made and talk to the characters. A few times, their speech seemed a bit awkward. I wanted to make some suggestions to him, but I also didn’t want to insult him. He’d been so nice to me.
Carmine, too. He hadn’t had time to take me to look for wedding dresses, but he was always polite to me. And friendly, too—after he’d had his morning cup of coffee.
And then there was Massimo. It was so ironic that the brother I was actually marrying was the one I knew the least well.
Ironic and worrying. And sad.
But I’d had such little experience talking to men that I struggled with talking with even the non-prickly ones. And Massimo was definitely a prickly guy.
A laugh bubbled up inside me. Or maybe I could just say that he was a prick. It was a word I’d never said aloud, and I felt of shame for thinking of it in terms of my fiancé.
However … sometimes it felt accurate.
Like when I went in his bedroom one evening and found him coming out of the bathroom. “You’re here,” I said, halting in my tracks.
“I live here,” he said dryly.
“I just mean … It’s early,” I faltered. I didn’t know what to say after that. Most women could ask their husband how their day was, but it had been drilled into me to never inquire about the work of a man like Massimo. Or my father.
“That happens every once in a while.” His white button-down shirt was open, and I could see the undershirt he wore underneath. Tan skin and a smattering of dark hair showed above it. “By the way, keep that girlie shit out of here.” He ducked back inside the bathroom and emerged with a small item that he threw onto the bed.
I moved closer, looking at the small, unfamiliar bag. It appeared to contain bath salts. “That’s not mine.”