Total pages in book: 197
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Cooking was her reprieve.
The kitchen was her haven.
Those boys knew damn well they better not bring that nonsense into this area of their home—he wouldn’t stand for it.
Except ... his wife wasn’t cooking today. No, she sat behind the island with a magazine spread out on the counter, and a cup of tea sitting beside her. A bang echoed from upstairs followed by Gio’s shout, and she simply glanced upward with a tight-lipped frown.
He knew it, then.
She was pissed.
“How long has that been going on?” he asked.
Cecelia didn’t even look at him. “Since they got home from school.”
Antony glanced at the clock, and winced. Shit. Three hours ago.
“That long?”
“Started before the gate to the driveway even opened,” Cecelia muttered.
“I’m—”
“Don’t apologize, Antony. I just want one single day this week where they don’t fight. Anything, really. You can’t even get them to sit down at a table and play nice for a meal. Even when their mouths are full, they’re still trading insults with one another. It’s ...”
“Tiring,” he murmured.
Cecelia glanced at him, and her gaze showcased exactly how she felt right then. Useless. Like there was nothing she could do, and she had finally had enough of this. Antony knew that feeling well, but damn if he hadn’t hoped their teenaged sons would figure this out on their own.
Appreciate one another.
Respect one another.
Make room for one another.
Something.
“I just wish they wouldn’t fight, that’s all,” Cecelia said.
Antony nodded. “Yeah, I know, Tesoro. It won’t always be like this, though. I can promise you that.”
Cecelia laughed quietly. “You think?”
“I know, actually. I fought all the time with my brother. It’s just how boys handle things. They don’t talk, Cecelia. They force their space, and make room for themselves. It’s how they work, and eventually, they learn that’s ... not the right way to go about it.”
“Hmm.”
She still looked sad.
God.
He hated that.
His sweet wife couldn’t—would not—be upset over her sons. That was un-fucking-acceptable, and he just wouldn’t let it continue.
“Give me five minutes,” Antony said, spinning on his heels to leave the kitchen.
“Wait, what are you—”
“Five minutes!”
Antony made it upstairs in record time—funnily enough, by the time he did get upstairs, the fighting was all but settled. He didn’t hear a peep coming out of Dante’s room, and Gio was just coming out of the bathroom with a reddened mark under his cheek.
“Your brother hit you?” Antony asked.
Gio shrugged. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.”
Yeah.
Because that’s also how these fucking boys of his worked. Even when they acted like they hated each other, they still watched each other’s backs like nobody’s business. Someone tried to mess with Giovanni once at school—even though the boy was more than capable of handling himself—and his brothers took it upon themselves to beat the hell out of the kid causing the issue.
Just because they could.
And it was their brother.
Part of Antony was happy his boys were like that—they were going to strengthen that bond, and make it into something no one else could touch.
Eventually.
Another part of him wished they were already at that point.
Except they weren’t.
“Did you deserve it?” Antony asked.
Because that was a damn good question, too.
Gio shrugged again. “Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t.”
Dio, save me from these kids before they make me go gray.
Antony drew in a deep breath, and released it slowly. “Go get dressed—something appropriate for that restaurant your mother likes in Manhattan.”
Gio scowled. “I don’t want to go to that stuffy fucking—”
“I’m sorry,” Antony said, cocking a brow, “did I start that statement with if it pleases your spoiled ass? Because I am pretty sure I did not. Now, march yourself to your room, put on something respectable, go downstairs, and apologize to your mother for this nonsense. And if we have another spell like we did today, Gio, I will not be this fucking nice. Got it?”
His son nodded once. “Got it.”
“Good—get.”
Antony didn’t wait for Gio to move his ass before he headed into the bedroom belonging to his second oldest son. Unsurprisingly, Lucian sat on the edge of Dante’s bed and flipped through a stack of CDs while Dante worked on the laptop at his desk. Neither of the two looked up at Antony’s entrance.
“What?” Dante said.
Okay.
This was quite enough.
Antony was done.
“Try again,” he uttered.
Dante stiffened before shooting an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Hit your brother again, and I will have you cutting the grass with scissors, Dante. Do I make myself clear?”
Dante’s brow dipped. “That’s like ... ten acres!”
“Try five.”
Give or take.
“But I’m sure it’d be a fun project, if you want to test me and give it a go,” Antony added.
“But he—”
“You’ll have to sharpen the scissors every hour or so, but maybe you’d get it done over a weekend.”
Lucian snorted from the bed, but never looked up from the CDs.
“And you are another one,” Antony deadpanned.