Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Vincenza would gloat, of course. She’d spin the narrative. That big, bad Ettore Scala, capo of the Malocchio syndicate, had been so frightened of his young wife that he had to drive her out, an hour away, and desert her like a dog on a desolate street corner for fear of what she would do to him next.
It didn’t matter what she said. I knew the truth.
Ettore wasn’t frightened at all. He was simply pissed the fuck off and making an example of me. It had nothing to do with our family history and had everything to do with me. But Vincenza would claim this victory as her own and I would let her because if I was anything, I was compliant.
I shouldn’t have felt so betrayed. I wasn’t sure why I did. I shot the man with intent to kill. Did I really think two days of sex would win him over? That he’d forgive me with an enthusiastic blowjob?
Lord.
My face screwed up and I threw things into the bag harder than intended.
I mean, just because I had a change of heart and did the stupidest, reckless thing someone in my position could do, he didn’t owe me anything. Just because I might have developed conflicting feelings for the monster, that didn’t mean he returned them.
Suddenly, I was shoving things into the bag with a roughly closed fist and harshly gritted teeth. And then, quite abruptly, something I hadn’t thought about weaseled its way into my mind and I stilled, unblinking.
My uncle had disowned me. Openly. Publicly.
The pressure in my head caused my temples to throb.
And that meant…
My stomach ached as I whispered the words out loud. “I no longer have a home.”
I don’t know how long I stood there, unmoving and barely breathing. But after the seriousness of my situation came to light, I found another emotion making the slow climb up my throat.
With a harsh growl, I lifted the hairbrush in my hand up high and brought it down onto the soft contents of the bag, over and over again until the pent-up rage seeped from my pores and ebbed away. Panting with exhaustion, I ran a hand through my long hair, fixing it with dainty fingers and looked in the mirror to find my cheeks pink and my soul broken. And for a single fleeting moment, I hated my family.
Everything I did, I did for them, grudgingly, and at Vincenza’s bequest. I sacrificed myself on an altar I didn’t even worship at. And where was she now?
Where was my sister?
My heart ached and my eyes burned. I closed them and attempted to steady my breathing.
It was all for nothing and cost me everything.
I didn’t want this. I wanted to be free, but that was less likely than Ettore coming back for me. My survival instinct was stronger than my ego. It always had been. And the slow realization of my situation came to light.
I didn’t have anyone else. Regardless of our history, of our circumstances, I didn’t have any other options here. An irrational part of me demanded to be with my husband. I needed money, and support. I needed a home.
The words were a timid whisper in my mind.
We need him.
Being with him for only two short days, Ettore had shown me I wasn’t as fragile as I’d been led to believe. He’d pushed me to see how strong I could be. I had been numb for so long that I forgot what it was to feel. I desperately craved it, craved him. The passion, the hunger and fury alike. He gave me back something I hadn’t even known I’d lost.
Myself.
I hadn’t even known I was crying again until I felt wetness bleed down my throat. I swiped at my eyes, held the bag, gave it a light shake then zipped it up.
It wasn’t fair. He’d taken so much from me already. My father, my family and now, my heart. It made no sense to want him back.
When I made it to the foyer, I peered around wistfully before heading to the front door. I swung the bag over my shoulder, put my hand to the knob, pulled the door open and took a single step forward before my heart jumped into my throat and I gasped loudly in fright.
I stumbled back as the hulking man turned to face me. Wide-eyed and shocked, I looked over him. He wore a tight black tee, black fatigues and scuffed black boots. The black leather gun holster draped over left shoulder linked in with his belt and my heart stammered when I saw he wore not one, or two, but three open carry pieces.
And as I stared at him with a racing heart and a gaping mouth, he looked down his nose at me. He looked Italian. Sounded it too when he asked, “You need something, Mrs. Scala?”