Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
"You did good, bella mia. No one will ever speak to you that way.”
Yeah, I get it. I’ve heard it all before.
Still, I swallow a lump in my throat because a part of me can’t dare to hope that he means any of this.
Crouched in front of me, he brings his hand to my face. Ah, yes, so apparently his hand didn’t remain unscathed. I don't flinch when he touches me. I just stare into the blue depths of his eyes, the most beautiful part of him.
“You watched and didn't react. You've been raised properly. You're a brave girl."
Is this guy mentally ill or something? He thinks he can be mean to me one second and sweet the next and I'm supposed to fall for the sweet guy routine?
I don’t think so.
He brushes his thumb against my chin. The skin is calloused and hard, like him, but his touch is gentle, almost as if he needs to remind himself of why he had to be so brutal.
“I’ll find out why he was here. I'm sorry that happened."
Every man on this plane is watching me. How I react is crucial. I hold my head high like my mama taught me. I hold his gaze and give a little nod, as if accepting his apology though it's slightly beneath me.
"I wondered if you'd allow your hired man to speak to your future wife that way," I say truthfully. "Thank you."
Do I truly believe he did the right thing? Did he truly believe I did?
It's debatable.
We’re on the verge of establishing a relationship here that will make or break me. I need to do whatever’s in my best interest. And, I suppose… so does he.
Salvatore jerks his head to the redhead. "How much training did that fucking asshole have?"
To my surprise, the guy chuckles. "Not enough, sir."
Salvatore smiles. It's his signature predatory smile that doesn't reach his eyes, designed to approve of this man's words but not actually show any humor. "You got that fucking right."
His gaze falls to the floor, and the humor fades. He snaps his fingers. “Clean her fucking shoes.”
I look down to see my shoes splattered with blood. Well if that’s not a goddamn nuisance. I extend my feet and purse my lips as his men scramble for something to clean my shoes with.
“Careful,” I chide. “I like my Louboutins.”
“You hear her?” Salvatore growls. “Be careful.”
Someone quickly cleans my shoes while Salvatore settles in beside me. I inspect the job and nod approvingly. Shoes clean and not damaged.
Salvatore stands and shrugs out of the suit jacket he puts on the back of a seat. Then he sits back down and buckles up. "Are you hungry, Marialena?"
I nod. “That’s one thing about me,” I tell him. “I’m sorry to say, that like apparently every other member of the female of the species, my appetite never wanes. Death? Disaster? A bloody beatdown? Being ripped from my family home and taken to another? Nope, I’m still starving.” I give a self-deprecating sigh and look out the window, but he seems amused. I’m not lying.
“Good girl. I hope your appetite extends to… many things.”
He did not just say that. Why yes, he did.
Lovely.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from blushing, but it doesn’t work.
Salvatore orders food from one of the men, who I guess might be the flight attendant for this trip. “Do you have any preferences?”
I shake my head. “I like everything.”
“Everything,” he repeats disbelievingly. “Sushi?” I nod my head.
“Oysters?” Another nod.
“Avocadoes? Black olives? Beet salad?”
“I literally like everything. I’ve never met a food I didn’t like. What about you?” I ask. I doubt that I'll have anything to do with his food preparation, but I guess it's probably helpful to know what my future husband likes to eat.
“I like Italian food with ingredients I trust and food I cook myself. I like most foods but hate processed shit.”
"So no gas station burritos for you. Shame. They have a certain piquancy.”
I swear he almost smiles. Almost.
Not that I care. I'm not trying to make him smile.
I don't say anything else as he orders us food, but I do feel a little surprised that he has this spread on the plane. Antipasto, tossed salad, small bowls of Italian wedding soup, followed by little slices of filet mignon, roasted potatoes, and grilled asparagus.
"This is pretty impressive for plane food."
"I am a very particular guy when it comes to food."
Now that I can deal with. I love good food.
“My brothers don’t just love good food. They love any kind of food. It isn’t a holiday in my house until a fistfight breaks out over the last cannoli.”
He doesn’t respond. I hate when that happens. You tell someone something and it’s just… crickets.
Still, I’m starving, and the food is delicious, so instead of small talk I work on eating. I nearly lick my plate clean.