Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
All my siblings hate it. Laura complains it’s too bright but her house is like a crypt. Davide never comes inside because it’s too cramped and I can’t really be mad about that one—he’s got his own demons to deal with.
Sometimes I feel like I’m the odd one out. Where the Bianco boys are all moody and grumpy, and Laura’s practically one toe away from turning into a serial killer, I like to think of myself as if I’m a cloud. Fluffy, floating, and carefree. Mom says I get it from her, but sometimes I wonder.
There’s a knock at the front door then my bell rings. “Come in,” I call out since only people in the inner circle could even get anywhere near my home right now. My family owns this entire block and we closed it off to traffic. Ever since Luciano Santoro’s mafia family attacked us here, there’s been double the normal amount of guards, which was pretty steep already. But it’s our oasis, and we’d fight to keep it safe. Heck, we already did.
“Did you seriously get more plants?” Simon strolls into the room, looking tired and haggard. My oldest brother took over the Don duties right after the big attack and he’s been orchestrating the war ever since.
“Only a few.” I spray a fine mist on the leaves of some English ivy I have growing up a wooden rod. I’ll have to trim that back eventually before it takes over the whole house.
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to overtake Mom as the plant lady.” He stands near my kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest, and I give him a playful squirt from the bottle. He waves the mist away, not looking amused.
“I’m sorry, Don Simon, did you come here to criticize me or is there something I can do for you? How about a glass of wine?”
He grunts, which I know means he’s interested, and I pull out a chilled white.
“I spoke to your future husband earlier today,” he says, not meeting my gaze as I put the glass down in front of him.
I lean back against the counter and take a long sip. “What did he have to say for himself?”
Simon’s still not looking at me as my heart flutters. I can’t tell if I’m having this reaction from thinking about Brody, or if I’m nervous that Simon’s about to give me shit. Maybe a little bit of both, but it should be all the latter. I shouldn’t have anything but negative thoughts for my fiancé, not after his poor showing at the gym. Sure, he’s handsome, but a pretty face, good hands, a muscular chest, solid forearms, ripped abs, toned biceps—none of that makes up for a shitty personality.
“You’re not supposed to talk to him yet,” Simon says, but his tone isn’t angry. That’s good at least.
“It’s a dumb rule. I’m going to spend my life with the guy. Why shouldn’t we get to know each other?” I say it as lightly as I can, but Simon’s still not looking at me. Sometimes I think he’s taking this arranged marriage thing harder than I am.
Except I haven’t given him any trouble about it. He approached with the idea and made it very clear that this would be strictly optional, but as soon as he told me his reasoning and made it clear that a match with the Quinn organization could be extremely beneficial to everyone involved, I knew I was going to say yes. That’s what I always do when it comes to our Famiglia, and I’m not even bitter about it. I love my family, my brothers, my mother, and even my father when he’s not being an enormous asshole, and I’d happily sacrifice everything I am for them. I just wish Simon could look me in the eye while I do it.
“I don’t want to make this harder on you than it needs to be,” he says, taking another long drink of wine. “The idea was to avoid you getting your hopes up or to have them dashed with enough time to change your mind.”
“Lucky for you, Brody’s a good-looking guy, so that’s not a problem.”
“Elena, that’s not what I mean.”
“Isn’t it? You were worried I wouldn’t be attracted to him and try to back out. But believe it or not, I’m not marrying the guy because I want to fuck him.”
He winces. “Can you not?”
“Oh, get over it. You’re the Don of a mafia family. You can hear your sister say the word ‘fuck.’”
“Not in the context of you having sex.” He waves an annoyed hand in the air. “We’re off track. I’m just saying, maybe it was a dumb rule, but it was a well-intentioned dumb rule.”
“And that’s why I’m not mad about it,” I say as gently as I can. “And it’s also why I didn’t listen.”