Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
I need to know that side of him. I need to know all of him if I’m going to make the right decision.
My stomach growls with hunger as we drive away. “You’re fidgeting,” Ricco says as I squirm on my seat.
“I’m nervous.”
“Why, baby?” He rests his hand on my upper thigh and gives it a little squeeze. “You have nothing to worry about. They’ll love you. Anyone who doesn’t needs their head examined.”
“You think so highly of me,” I say with a grimace. “But you haven’t smelled my morning breath.”
He shrugs. “I’m not scared of morning breath.”
“You really don’t know what I’m like when I have PMS.”
He quirks a brow as he takes a turn. “You turn into a dragon?”
“Well, no, but I cry a lot and may or may not eat copious amounts of ice cream.”
Ricco shrugs. “Crying doesn’t bother me, and I’ll buy you all the ice cream you need.”
I contemplate the passing countryside, not really seeing it. “I just… I don’t belong in your world, Ricco.”
Ricco sighs. “Babe, I don’t belong in my world, but here we are.”
I wonder what that means, but he doesn’t elaborate as we continue to drive.
“I got something for you. I want you to wear it tonight.”
My heart beats a little faster in anticipation. “If it’s one of those pairs of remote-controlled, vibrating underwear…”
Ricco winces. “God, you shouldn’t guess so accurately.”
“Ricco! You did not buy me those!”
“You’re right,” he says with a laugh. “I didn’t.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief while nursing the tiniest bit of disappointment as well. Climaxing through the tiramisu would be a good distraction.
“Open the glove compartment.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye as I do what he says.
A slim but long velvet box sits inside.
My heart beats faster.
Did he buy me jewelry?
“Open it.”
My hands tremble slightly as I reach in and draw out the box. I gasp when I open it.
An entire jewelry set is nestled inside; the sapphires and diamonds of the necklace, earrings, and bracelet are cast in white gold. The gemstones are exquisite and perfect.
“‘A glint of the bluest blue, flash from a sapphire sun,’” I muse, quoting a line of poetry as I finger the glittering facets. “These are so beautiful.”
Ricco parks the car. “Come here and let me put them on you.”
His fingers are warm as he slides the necklace in place and kisses my bare neck where it lies. I slip the earrings in and the bracelet on; he touches and cups my cheek and kisses me there, too.
“Stunning,” he says. “And the jewelry isn’t bad.”
“You know you can’t buy my love and affection,” I tell him, joking but also partly serious.
“I have no intention of buying love and affection,” he says, exiting the car to walk around to my side. “But sex, now that’s another story.”
I snort as he opens my door, then realize we have an audience.
“Hey, Adriano,” Ricco says. “Dani, this is Adriano, Quinn’s husband.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my nerves. “I love your wife! I think you were at the club once when I was there.”
Adriano gives Ricco a sharp look. “You were at the club?” he asks, shaking his head. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Pleasure to meet you, Daniella.”
Holding Ricco’s gaze, Adriano embraces me and kisses first one cheek, then the other. It’s a classic Italian move to welcome someone, so I’m not sure why Ricco’s jaw tightens.
What the hell is up with these two?
“And you,” I say back, then give a start when someone squeals.
“Is this her? Oh my God, Ricco, you dog! How’d you land a woman like this?” A stunning brunette wearing spiky heels and a bodycon dress dances over to us.
“Daniella, meet my cousin, Marialena Rossi.”
Rossi. My stomach clenches. I remember stories of the Rossis, years ago, from when I was a teen. They were known for their acts of brutal retribution, and the old Rossi Don—her father?—was a notorious mobster whose cruelty knew no bounds.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, trying not to choke at the memories flooding me. Of the latest victim of the Rossi family strung from the Zakim Bridge for trying to assault one of their sisters. Of another found executed on the Boston waterfront for theft, another gone missing after a shooting in the North End. And of the brutal tales people told of Orlando Rossi’s meat freezer in his restaurant…
“Come on, come on,” Marialena says. “Let the men catch up and you come and meet my mother.”
She whisks me away to a patio bathed in reds and golds by the setting sun’s rays. A tall, regal woman who looks a lot like Marialena but obviously older sits at an outdoor bar with a tall glass of wine. She raises her eyebrows at us but smiles.
“You have a friend, Lena?”