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)
"Good girl," he says approvingly, though he’s not looking at me but at his phone. "I like."
I'm not really sure what he likes about me eating a lot of food. But whatever. Fine with me.
“Continue your good behavior, I may even let you have dessert.”
Is he joking? Or does he really mean that the dessert is a reward that I earn?
We’ll see about that.
I don't know exactly how much control he's going to wish he had over me. I don't really know how much control he's going to insist he has over me.
But I’ve got a say in this, too. I’ll just bide my time.
"I definitely like dessert," I say. “One might say it’s my favorite part of a meal.”
"Let me guess. You never met a dessert you didn't like, either," he says. This time I get an actual smile. Brief, like the slightest flash of sun when clouds part only to be covered by the next burst of clouds, but it's there.
"Bingo."
"In Florida, we're famous for our key lime pie. Have you ever had it?"
I shake my head. “Hmm. No, we usually eat Italian desserts. My Nonna…” I pause, because to my surprise my throat begins to close. I feel tears prick my eyes, but I will not give him the satisfaction of my tears. If he notices my delay, he doesn't say anything. I quickly recover.
"Nonna makes the best desserts. It’s her specialty. Torta Caprese, panna cotta, tiramisu. And I love my brothers’ cannoli.” My voice does catch at the end. I miss them already. I look away so he doesn’t see my eyes welling with tears.
Thankfully, he isn’t looking at me at all.
“So if there's no food you don't like," he says, “do you have any favorites?"
"Of course."
"Well, let's hear them."
"Steak grilled on an open grill outdoors, topped with caramelized onions and loads of mushrooms. Particularly delicious if the mushrooms have been marinated first. Stuffed manicotti, homemade pizza made on a wood-burning stove. My mama’s ravioli, the one she makes with spinach and ricotta.”
"And wine?"
My voice is a whisper now. Still, he doesn’t look at me. I answer truthfully.
"I like any wine from my family's vineyard."
It's true. Red, white. Sparkling, sweet, dry. If it was made in a Rossi vineyard in Tuscany, I will drink it.
"Anything comparable in the common market for us plebians?” If he’s being sarcastic, it doesn’t show.
I shrug. "Maybe. I've never had a reason to ask, though, because we've always just had my family’s wine. It would be almost sacrilegious to drink anything else.” I sigh. Not almost. “You like to cook your own food. We like to drink our own wine.”
His phone rings again. This time, instead of ignoring me, he makes a brief apology before he answers it.
I can tell before the conversation has lasted longer than ten seconds that this time he has his cousin… Cristiano?... on the line.
“Ah, cousin. So when I give you a motherfucking instruction to hire someone, you follow protocol. You don’t send him on a plane untrained, do you? Oh, really? Did you teach him anything about what my expectations were? Because that little asshole seemed to think he was running the ship here. He not only disrespected Marialena, he had the nerve to put his hands on her. Yes, really.”
I can actually hear the gasp of surprise from the other end of the line.
"You bet your ass I did. I want him gone. I want all of his belongings off my property before I get home. If I see a trace of him, I’m coming after you. And you and I will have a long talk later about what I expect in a new hire.”
When he hangs up, he looks at me. I wonder if he’s waiting for a reaction. Horror? Surprise?
“You don’t seem bothered by any of this. You don’t seem ruffled at all.”
“Any of what?” I ask him honestly. I’m curious what he means.
“You were bullied by one of my men. I beat the shit out of him and threw his ass off the plane. My staff cleaned blood off your fucking shoes. I’d think the average woman would at least be ruffled—”
“You didn’t choose an average woman, Salvatore,” I say with a sigh and a forward thrust of my chin. “I’m a Rossi. You’ll have to try a lot harder to shock me.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. I shiver.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Salvatore
I don't make decisions for emotional reasons or any other bullshit like that. I’ve been born and bred to use nothing but cold reasoning.
Marialena Rossi, with that winsome way of hers, will not change that. She will be my bride, and I'll take care of her as my role dictates.
But she will not be someone I fall in love with. She will not be someone who makes the decisions around here, and she sure as hell won’t lead me around by my dick.