Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
She rolls her shoulders back. “We were discussing it last night, yes. As an idea. You both want me to have purpose and accomplishment, right?”
“Not here… in America.” Mr. Ricci sighs. He speaks Italian under his breath, and his wife shushes him.
“And where will you get money for this, Honey?” her mother asks.
She’s silent again.
“I’ll buy it for her,” I tell them.
Mr. Ricci stands, his chair screeching against the floor. I stand to match him and tower over her father by at least a foot. His guards tentatively move closer.
“My daughter is a novelty to someone like you. Something to pass the time until you’re done with her. You are not worthy of her.”
Honey is standing with me now. Her fingers interlaced with mine. In a front of unity, though, I know she’s terrified. The tension is palpable.
I offer him a malicious smile. “Maybe not. But I sure as hell know I will do everything possible to make her happy. Which you seem to be failing at.” I look at the knife on the table pointedly. “And to answer your previous question, I’ve only ever killed when it’s served a purpose.”
It would only require a signal for him to order one of his men to shoot me where I stand. I know he wants to, and I know that part of me is fucking daring him to do it.
“This was a m-mistake,” Honey says, and her broken voice draws me back to her.
“Oh, Honey,” her mother says as she reaches over the table.
Tears well in Honey’s eyes as she tugs on my arm for us to leave. “We’re leaving. But, Papa, Dawson does make me v-very h-happy.” Her voice cracks. “And if Rya is allowed to have that, then so should I. I’m sorry I don’t live up to your expectations, but I can’t live in her shadow anymore, either.”
His expression twists momentarily into one of pain. For all his ruthlessness, his girls sure as hell know how to hit the mark as sharp as a bullet.
“Dawson, take me home,” she pleads.
All my fight and bravado escape me.
I failed her today. Fuck.
I nod to Mrs. Ricci in parting as I let Honey lead us out.
Immediately, Mrs. Ricci begins to yell as the waiters stand at the door, confused, with plates of food in hand.
Goddammit! We didn’t even make it to the entrée.
CHAPTER 48
Honey
Groveling is not something my father does.
But an entire day of missed calls and not replying to their messages have led them into my small apartment. My father sits across from me, finding sudden interest in the wallpaper. He’s a proud man. One who uses action as opposed to words.
My mother enters the room with coffee and places the cups in front of us on the coffee table. I wish Rya were here in times like this because she’s always good at this. Mediating. Not that my father and I ever had a need for that before.
The dinner was horrible.
Worse than horrible.
Hideous.
Appalling.
Loathsome.
And I’d only sent a few texts to Dawson as I tried to think about what I actually want instead of what everyone else wants for me. And, surprisingly, he’s respected that space when I thought he would be kicking down my door. Dawson spent the night here after the dinner. We didn’t have sex and barely spoke. Instead, he held me, and I was grateful for his compassion.
I was shocked when he mentioned the idea of the restaurant in front of them, but as I thought about it more, I’m coming around to the idea. Well, a bakery and coffee café, at least.
“I don’t like him,” my father says, referring to Dawson.
“Leonardo,” my mother bites back, and he looks away.
“You don’t have to like him, Father, as long as I do.”
His gaze lands on me.
I roll my shoulders back again, uncomfortable with his stare. “So what if Dawson and I end up as a fling? It doesn’t matter if it’s him or anyone else. No man will ever be to your liking.”
“He’s flashy and arrogant. A pretty boy,” my father begins.
“And you’re a ruthless killer, but Mother was able to love you.”
They seem taken aback by this statement, and I throw my hands in the air. “I’m not a child. And you need to stop treating me as such. Let me make my own decisions and mistakes. Let me stumble and fall. At least I’ll know it was because I made that choice and not because you told me to.”
They’re both quiet, and I realize for the first time I’m being seen.
I’m actually being heard.
“I don’t want to have to choose between my family and whatever it is I want to seek out. Whether it’s a relationship or even if I want to build a café. Maybe it’ll go well. Maybe it’ll flop. But at least I tried using my own merit.”