Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 163540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 818(@200wpm)___ 654(@250wpm)___ 545(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 818(@200wpm)___ 654(@250wpm)___ 545(@300wpm)
“Stop her!” I hear Enrico yell across the bar.
Maso runs after me and grabs my elbow. “Get away from me.” I push him hard in the chest and run out onto the street with Maso and Marley hot on my heels. I jump into the back of a cab.
“Drive!” I force out.
“Where to?” the driver says casually.
My eyes fill with tears. God, where do I go? He will come and get me wherever I am anyway. There’s no point going anywhere. I just didn’t want to fight with him in a crowded bar in front of everyone, that’s all.
I give the driver the address of the apartment in Milan, and I rustle through my handbag to dig out my key and clutch it tightly in my hand. I turn and look out the back window to see Maso following in his car. No doubt Enrico won’t be far behind.
“Power freak,” I whisper to myself.
He could see Franco was drunk and yet he hit him anyway. Not once but, like, six times.
Fucking asshole.
I’m so mad with him that I can’t even stand it. Who does he think he is?
His over the top reaction was just uncalled for.
The cab pulls up out the front of the apartment. I pay the driver and get out. Maso and Marley sit in their car as they watch me go in. I take the lift and arrive at the apartment.
I’m furious and looking for a fight, but I know he is, too, and it’s not a good combination. I’m going to go to bed so that we don’t get into an all-out war.
I take off my makeup, put my pyjamas on, and I get under the covers, just in time to hear the door open. He’s home.
I scrunch my eyes shut tight and pretend to be asleep. The bedroom door bangs open.
“Do not ever fucking leave a club without me again. Do you hear me, Olivia?” he bellows.
“Get out,” I snap. “Sleep in the spare room tonight.”
“Cazzo, non osare dirmi cosa devo fare,” he yells as he takes off his shoes.
“I can’t understand you!” I yell into my pillow.
“Learn fucking Italian, then.” He throws his shoe across the room. It hits the drawers with a bang. “Like you said you would.”
Something inside me snaps, and I sit up in a rush. “Are you fucking serious, right now?”
“Oh, I am fucking serious.” His dark eyes are crazy. He’s just as furious as me, maybe even more so.
“That’s it.” I get out of bed, pick up my pillow and blanket, and I storm past him to make my way to the other room.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you.” I walk into the spare bedroom and slam the door behind me.
I get under the covers and I hear him coming up the hall again. The door bangs open and he throws shopping bags onto the bed.
I sit up in a rush. “What are you doing?”
“Your unopened presents are not staying in the room with me.” He turns and disappears again.
I roll my eyes at his dramatics and lie back down.
He comes bursting through the door again with another armful of bags and throws them over me. “Give these away. It is obvious that you don’t want them.”
“That’s right. I don’t fucking want them.”
His eyes look like they are about to pop out of his head. “Three-carat diamond fucking earrings are not good enough for you?” He hurls the small black box that he bought to my office as hard as he can at the wall above my head and it dents the plaster.
“I don’t want your fucking presents, Enrico.” I get out of bed and walk out of the room in a rush.
“What do you fucking want, Olivia?” he yells as he follows me.
I arrive in the kitchen. “I want you.” I shake my head as I try to articulate my feelings. “I want you to be sentimental and to think about me and my feelings.”
He screws up his face, and I think he’s about to explode… literally.
“Pensi che non sia sentimentale?”
I narrow my eyes. He knows I can’t fucking understand him.
“You think I’m not sentimental, Olivia,” he sneers. “I remember every fucking word that leaves your lips. I know every curve on your body.” He disappears up the hall and into his office. I peer after him. What’s he doing now?
He reappears, carrying a wineglass and holding it up toward me. “What is this?” he yells in an outrage.
I frown in confusion.
“What is this?” He repeats.
“It’s a glass,” I say.
“Not just a glass.” He holds it higher. “This is the glass that you drank out of on the first night in my apartment in Roma.” He spins the glass so I can see the red lipstick marks on it. “I kept this for two years because it had your lips on it. I couldn’t wash it because I knew if I did, I would have lost the only mark you left with me.”