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)
Her phone falls into her lap. The tension around her shoulders eases. She no longer clenches her hands. I suspect Marialena would hate to know that as she sleeps her head falls to my shoulder.
I keep working, but this time I let myself enjoy the feel of her leaning on me when she sleeps. The quiet fluttering of her breath.
I gesture for staff to bring me a blanket. It tends to be cold in here, and she sits right beneath the draft. Wouldn't do to bring home the woman I'm going to marry only to find out that she’s sick.
I take the blanket, quietly unfold it, and drape it over her without waking her.
She sleeps until we land. When she wakes, she lifts her head off my shoulder as if to deny she allowed herself to be so vulnerable.
I watch as she blinks, disoriented like a child, then looks out the window as we prepare to land. Though the sun has set hours ago, the coast is lit with bright white lights, illuminating the palm trees and white sand.
I wonder if she’ll like it.
But I'm waiting for the next show of defiance. I'm waiting for her to try to escape, undermine me, or attempt to get away. She's not here of her own volition, so I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Did you put a blanket on me?"
"Yes. It’s cold.”
I finish the last email, shut off my phone, and slide it into my pocket.
She picks up hers and sends a couple of texts. I watch her text after we touch down.
Landed. I'm here. I'm fine.
I can either walk with her, or I can carry her inside because she's tired and she's my bride and I want to make a statement. I reach for her, lift her up, and she does not protest. I exit the plane with her still in my arms.
Turns out Cristiano is lucky I'm holding her when I get off this plane, so my hands are occupied.
"New bride?"
The dick.
“No, I decided the flight attendant looked tired. Yeah, asshole, she’s the one I’m marrying tomorrow. Show her the respect she deserves and ensure everyone else does the same.” I will not have anyone fucking up like earlier.
Cristiano is the very picture of apology. “Say no more. It’s my fault, and I'm sorry."
"We'll talk about this later,” I tell him. We sure as fuck will.
"Your mother’s home."
Fuck. I wonder if I imagine the note of smugness in his tone.
I stifle a groan. I do not want to have to deal with her tonight or any other fucking night.
My nearly senile uncle’s the head of our mob, but not for long. We all know he’s prepared to abdicate his authority to me once I’m married, one of the reasons why getting married is a top priority for me.
“Who else is home?”
Cristiano gives me a litany of names. Most of my top-notch staff is on. That'll help.
I'm tired. She's exhausted. We have a big day ahead tomorrow, and the last thing I want to deal with is my goddamn mother. But I know if I don’t, tomorrow will be much worse.
Marialena doesn’t need to, though. Not tonight.
She hasn’t said a word. She’s still in my arms, and it looks as if she's going to fall asleep again at any moment. I slide her down and arrange her in front of me.
I suppose it’s time to start the formal introductions.
"Cristiano, meet Marialena. Marialena, Cristiano." He's ever the gentleman as he takes her hand and shakes it. I’m guessing she’s savvy enough to see straight through the act.
"Pleased to meet you," he lies. Cristiano despises women and considers them his to use then discard as he wishes.
"Pleased to meet you," she repeats back at him. Also a lie.
We enter the waiting car while my men gather up our luggage. Cristiano joins us and fills us in on what happened during my brief absence. I've been gone for four days, and a lot has occurred in that time. I had wondered if I’d feel rusty after getting out of jail, but it feels as natural to me as riding a bike.
During a lull in the conversation, Marialena speaks up. "I looked up your home on the plane," she says quietly.
"I know."
Her jaw clenches, but she doesn't say much else at first.
"It's huge. How many people live there?"
"It depends on the day. My sisters are all gone. My mother frequently visits, but also spends time in Italy. Sometimes it's just me and staff.”
"That sounds lovely."
An introvert, then, or does she just prefer a simpler life?
"It isn't."
I idly wonder if that's a lie. Or have I just never really given it much thought? Is it lonely? I like when I don't have a lot of people in my space. I like not having to entertain or put on an act.