Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
9
SERGEI
She settles on the couch, Trash jumping into her lap and purring.
“Are you hungry?” The words just come out.
She looks up, her expression shocked but also amused. “You’re offering me food. A last meal sort of thing?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Are you hungry or not, princess?”
She shrugs and goes back to petting Trash. “I could eat.”
“Has anyone told you that you’re a brat?” I walk into the kitchen and pull open the fridge, then take out some prosciutto and a fresh burrata I picked up yesterday.
“Vin may have mentioned it a few times.” She watches me closely, though she gets distracted here and there by Trash.
“Vincent, your oldest brother?”
“I guess you’ve done your homework.” She sighs. “Yes, he’s the oldest.”
I’m supposed to kill him. My father promised me I’d be the one to strike the death blow to that sanctimonious prick, but I suppose that’s not something I should mention to Olivia.
“Do you always wear your emotions on your sleeve?” She leans back and smiles when Trash perches himself on her shoulder.
“I don’t.” I shrug and grab a bread knife to work on the baguette.
Her gaze sticks to the knife, but then she looks away. “You do.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever accused me of it.” I slice the bread evenly, and silently wish it was fresher, crispier. But I’m being an idiot. She’s lucky I’m even feeding her. She’ll take what she gets.
“You’re joking. I can see right through you.” She snorts a little laugh. “Like right now, you’re pissed off.”
I slice the last piece of bread with a rough movement. “I’m not.”
“You just mangled the bread,” she chides.
I look down and see she’s right. It may not have been particularly crispy, but now it’s misshapen. Fuck. I pluck out the best pieces and arrange them on a plate with some slices of prosciutto and pieces of the burrata.
“Here.” I carry it to her and place it on the coffee table. Trash jumps down, his tail straight up with interest. “Not you.” I scoop him up and carry him to the kitchen, where I keep his food.
“I would’ve shared,” Olivia calls.
“I don’t need him throwing up all over the place.” I grab a can of his food from the pantry and serve it up.
He digs in, eating greedily as I return to the living room.
“This is actually … pretty good.” She uses a butter knife and loads up a piece of bread with cheese, then tops it with a thin slice of prosciutto. Chewing thoughtfully, she offers me the plate.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Her eyebrow lifts at that.
“In the sense that I’m not hungry.” I lean back in my armchair and watch her. I can’t seem to help myself. She should be utterly uninteresting, an open book of vapid bullshit. But I find that’s not the case. Somehow, she’s charming me. With her sass and her selflessness–I mean who the fuck says they’re glad they’re the one who’s been kidnapped?
She keeps eating, though her gaze darts to the kitchen every so often.
“Looking for the cat?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies too quickly.
“Mm-hmm.” I smirk.
“Something I’ve wondered about you—” She takes a big bite.
I cock my head toward her, suddenly interested in whatever she’s been thinking about me. Of course, she has to know my reputation. There’s no way the Fernandinos aren’t aware of every single Taletti player. It’s in their best interest to be as informed as possible about their enemies. Not that it did them any good. I already have what I realize is their prize–Olivia Fernandino. All along, my father and I thought Vincent’s or his brother Leon’s death would bring old Giuseppe Fernandino to his knees. We were wrong. It’s this little pistol right in front of me. The loss of her–my stomach churns as my mind goes down that dark road.
“Your name.”
“My name?” I ask.
“Sergei. It’s Russian. Not Italian. Your dad never married. Everyone knows that. But no one’s ever been able to figure out who you and Sal’s mother is. His name, though, is Italian.”
“I didn’t hear a question.”
She rolls her eyes. “What’s with the Russian name?”
“Sal and I don’t have the same mother. Mine was Russian.” I say it as nonchalantly as possible, but the truth is I don’t like thinking about my mother. I don’t remember her, don’t know a damn thing about her. Only that my father said she turned on him just like all the rest. The same with Sal’s mother. My father didn’t have to elaborate about what happened to them once he’d decided they were against him.
“Was?”
I stand. “I need to make a call.”
She shrinks back against the couch.
“Easy, princess. I’m just calling Sal.”
She swallows hard. “Okay.”
I turn and head to the bedroom, grabbing my phone and scrolling through Sal’s messages. He’s losing his shit.
Me: Tell Dad I’ll call him in the morning. I’ve got some shit to straighten out.