Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 124(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 124(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
He turned his face into my hand and kissed my palm. “I’m fine, dolcezza.”
I tipped my chin back. “I’ll sleep if you sleep.”
His eyes narrowed with displeasure, not caring for my defiance.
I caressed his cheek, tracing the bold lines of his masculine features until most of the tension melted away. I trailed my fingers through his hair, soothing him the way he’d comforted me.
He released a low sound, something between a hum of contentment and a groan of pain. His eyes closed, and his head dropped back against the pillow.
“Farfallina…” he murmured, an exhausted rebuke.
It was my turn to shush him. I was so tired too, drugs still swirling in my system.
I rested my cheek on his chest and relaxed against him. His breathing turned deep and even, and mine slowed to match. We both fell into a peaceful sleep.
The next week passed in a disjointed blur. Massimo insisted that I continue taking painkillers that made me drowsy, and I didn’t protest. He wanted me to heal quickly, and I had no reason to argue. The sooner I recovered, the sooner I could stay conscious long enough to have a real conversation with him.
As it was, I spent the days sleeping in his arms, eating from his hand, and being tenderly bathed by him. He saw to my every need, and my whole world centered on him. I was completely reliant on him, and I didn’t feel so much as a flicker of disquiet. Being with him felt right, despite my lingering pain. I’d never been cared for like this. No one in my family had taken much notice of me at all while I was growing up, and George had cruelly neglected my needs. He’d insisted that I bend over backward to please him, and nothing I did was ever enough. The point had always been to make me feel small and inadequate, to keep me desperately trying harder to make him happy.
I could see the years of abuse so clearly now that I’d experienced what life could be like with Massimo. He would do anything for me, and he asked for nothing in return. There were no guilt trips or bargaining. He gave me everything I could ever need or desire, and that seemed to make him happy.
I didn’t fully understand it—I still didn’t feel worthy of such treatment—but I was too addicted to him to question it too closely.
Later into my third week of recovery, Massimo asked me how I’d like to pass the time while I rested. I wanted to know more about him, so I asked what he usually did with his free time.
“I like to read,” he replied.
“Really?” I couldn’t quite hide my surprise. Massimo was a dangerous man, a man of action. I had a hard time picturing him quietly reading.
He nodded. “My parents wanted me to be educated. They thought that was how I would escape Le Vele one day. That dream was never realistic, but they instilled the value of learning in me from a young age. Even after they died, I didn’t leave that part of my childhood behind.” He absently tucked a stray lock of my hair behind my ear.
“Is that how you honor their memory?” I asked quietly. “By continuing to educate yourself?”
His full lips pressed to a thin line, and he took a moment to consider his answer. “You give me too much credit, dolcezza. There was nothing noble about it. Even though my parents were naïve idealists, they were right about one thing: ignorance won’t get you very far in life. Gian and Enzo understand that too. When we met at the Camorra bar where we ended up living, we all agreed that we would get out of Le Vele. We would use every weapon at our disposal. I was a scrawny kid, and a sharp wit served me better than my fists at the time. My friends and I survived because we were smarter than the other boys. We read everything we could get our hands on.”
“What kind of books did you read?” I asked. “Was there a library or something in your neighborhood?”
He snorted his derision. “No, there wasn’t a library. We couldn’t afford physical books. My shitty old phone was filled with e-books I scoured from the internet. At first, I read up on fighting techniques, then military strategy. But on sleepless nights, I found escape in fiction.”
He said it like there had been many sleepless nights. Had he been haunted by nightmares of his parents’ murders all throughout his violent childhood?
My heart ached for him, and I tenderly caressed his cheek. He leaned into my gentle touch, as though he couldn’t help himself.
“What do you like to read now?” I pressed.
His long fingers trailed through my hair. “Before I came to Mexico City to make this deal with Duarte, I was reading a biography of the emperor Hadrian.”