Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Don’t gape,” he says with no anger or emotion. He seems cold. “It makes you look like you don’t belong.”
I pull my gaze away from the unbelievably giant painting of what might be a biblical scene, but I’m not sure.
He takes me to the end of a long hallway to a bedroom and then lets me go. “I’ll wait out here.”
“Well, duh. You wouldn’t come in with me, would you?”
His lip twitches again, but he seems to force it away like he’s angry at himself for even letting an “almost-smile” touch his lips. “When you meet my parents, try not to say things like duh. Remember, you were raised on the East Coast, then moved west, and now you’re back. That will explain your accent.”
“Have you told them about my aunt?”
“Hmm,” he nods. “I said you moved here with her.”
“Okay, I won’t be long.”
I push open the bedroom door, trying not to gape at its sheer size. It’s bigger than mine and Aunt Rosa’s entire apartment.
CHAPTER TWO
DARIO
Ichose Elena because she has no extended family, and hell, I don’t know. I didn’t overthink it. I saw her, and I picked her, and that’s that, goddamn it. Father’s been bothering me for a long time to get married, quiet the tongues wagging that I hadn’t settled down yet, and I needed to get him off my back finally. Sitting at the table, I feel something stir inside as I look across at her.
She’s wearing a silver dress that subtly hugs her figure. She’s curvy in the extreme, her shape rising and falling in a way that triggers something deep and hungry in me. I’m not used to physical attraction like this. Even with family at the table, something moves me as I look across at her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mother says in her usual detached way.
“Yes,” Father says in the same manner. He looks at me, not at Elena, as he speaks. “A pleasure.”
I give him a blank stare in return. He’s clearly trying to make some point, perhaps pissed I haven’t taken a woman from a Family which might afford us an alliance. That was why he and Mother got married, after all. It was for business, even if they did end up falling in love.
“Thank you so much,” Elena says, bright and happy. She doesn’t seem marked by the heaviness of our life. That’s a problem. I could tell how stunned she was by our wealth when she walked through the door. That’s another problem.
When the staff members bring out the food, Elena smiles kindly at them. Her cheeks have a slight flush that continues that quickening of something inside me. It’s not love, obviously. I don’t know her. I’m paying her, but it’s more than I usually experience, which isn’t saying much.
Father frowns when Elena says, “Thank you so much.” His frown deepens when she reaches for the bread plate. I shake my head at her subtly, and her hand immediately retracts. She can take stage directions, then. I wonder what other instructions she could follow.
Father doesn’t like it when people treat the staff like human beings, but, in this modern age, it’s not that unusual.
“It’s, uh, really nice to meet you, too,” Elena says.
“Really nice,” Mother repeats as if the phrasing offended her. “Yes. Remarkable.”
I grit my teeth. There’s something about them looking down on her that pisses me the hell off, even if it shouldn’t. I should be angry at Elena for not being sufficiently prepared, but I can’t bring myself to even think about feeling that emotion.
“You must be relieved to have returned to the East Coast,” Mother says.
“Oh, absolutely,” Elena says, with far too much breathless enthusiasm. “I miss the sun, but I think I love the sea. I love that cold bite in the air, you know?”
“You know,” Father repeats, hating any talk not encased in a prison of formality.
When Father finally reaches for a piece of bread and places it on his plate, I give Elena what I hope is another subtle nod. Her light green eyes—and damn beautiful, I can’t lie—dart to him and then back to me. She gets it. She has to use the plate. She places a piece of bread down, looking at the array of knives. Her eyebrows furrow as she attempts to puzzle it out.
I pick up my knife, and she glances at me, then does the same.
“Our son is woefully distant,” Mother goes on. “He’s hardly told us a thing about you.”
“What would you like to know, Mrs. Moretti?” Elena asks, leaning her elbows on the table.
To regular people, this might not seem like anything of significance. Honestly, to me, it means nothing. I wouldn’t care if she wanted to sit cross-legged on the table and spoon the food into her mouth with her hand. At least it would put an interesting look on Mother and Father’s faces, but they stare like Elena’s just thrown a curse word at them.