Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
By the time we climbed out of that shower, I was pruny and absolutely exhausted. But… happy.
God, I don’t know if I even remembered the last time I actually felt happy.
Satisfied for a job well-done? Sure. Glad my sister was away from her abusive ex and getting her future sorted out? Absolutely.
But happy just for myself?
Years?
Longer?
I didn’t know.
All I did know was that nothing had ever felt quite as right as being wrapped up in Salvatore’s tee. That is, of course, until I woke up in the middle of the night wrapped in his arms.
I had no idea how I’d gotten there.
Ever-aware of not wanting to come off as too clingy, I’d curled up on my side facing him, but not trying to snuggle into him.
Had he reached for me?
Had I rolled into him, giving him no choice?
It had been so long since I’d shared a bed with a man that I kind of had no idea what my mattress-sharing etiquette was like anymore.
“I’m gonna go put the coffee on,” Salvatore said, giving me a squeeze, then releasing me.
Did I roll over in the bed to watch him walk shirtless out of the room? You bet your ass I did.
Then I stared at his ceiling with a stupid grin on my face.
For all of, you know, fifteen seconds. Before the uncertainly and insecurity and fear set in, of course. It was bound to, but I was hoping I might get a little longer.
The problem with joy was that it had always been fleeting for me. I could never get comfortable with it, settle into it, and I definitely couldn’t expect it to be part of my daily life.
So I couldn’t help but wonder what the timeline was on this. Did I get Salvatore for a few days? Week? Months? It seemed absurd to hope for anything longer. Nothing about Salvatore Costa screamed “settling down material” to me.
I mean, not that I was planning on settling down with a mafia capo or anything.
A strange, choked laugh escaped me at that thought.
I mean never in a million years did I think that would even be a thought that could run through my head. Not literally. When fantasizing about a dark romance book? Sure. But no one ever actually hooked up with a mafia capo, y’know? That was all fiction.
Except, of course, it wasn’t fiction for me.
I was a little surprised that the internal monologues of all the heroines I’d read didn’t run across my mind right then. All the reasons mafia guys were a bad choice.
The lifestyle was dangerous!
Yeah, well, I’d already been shot.
They are cold and domineering!
Maybe, but they were also protective and kind.
They could go to jail!
Salvatore had already been there and done that.
The only thing that pulled me out of my swirling thoughts was the sound of male voices coming from the living room. At first, I thought it was just Anthony and Salvatore having a morning chat while the coffee brewed. But then I realized it was at least three voices out there. Maybe four.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of the bed, trying to settle my hair as best I could as I went to Salvatore’s dresser and pulled out a pair of black and gray flannel pajama pants, pulling them on, then making my way toward the doorway.
Why?
I couldn’t say.
Curiosity, I guess.
Wanting to meet more of his people, maybe.
I don’t know. To be honest, I didn’t give the urge too much thought as I moved out into the hallway.
And that was when four heads turned almost in unison.
Salvatore, Anthony, some guy in jeans and Timberland shoes with lots of tattoos, and…
“Maine,” I said, the name coming out a little tight.
“It’s Cesare, actually,” Maine said, shooting me a boyish smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the other guy that I’d never seen before.
“What’s his name?” he asked, head nodding in an oddly, I don’t know, intimidating manner.
“Sorry? Who?”
“Your face. What’s his name?”
“Oh,” I said, my hand automatically going up, remembering the bruises. If my history of bruising was repeating itself, then each day for the first three or four would make them look darker and uglier until, eventually, they started to fade a bit. I probably looked worse than I had before I’d slathered on all that pancake makeup.
“Just wanna have a nice talk with ‘em,” the guy said, shrugging. “Me and my knife, we can sweet-talk him all night,” he went on.
And the crazy thing was, I think he not only meant that, even though he didn’t know me, but that he would… enjoy that.
“Brio…” Cesare said, his tone a warning that the Brio guy promptly ignored.
“Start with the eyelids. You got any idea how fucking painful it can get not to be able to blink your eyes? Couldn’t look away when I started peeling some other—“