Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
He leans his weight on the cane in his hand and wraps the other one around my nape, pulling me close to press a kiss on my forehead. A moment passes. And another. He sets me free, searching my eyes for answers I’m ready to give him.
“Come inside,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “It’s cold.”
I let him guide me into the welcome warmth of the house. It smells like lasagna. “Where’s Claire?”
“Livy put her to sleep.” He takes my bag and then my coat, deftly putting everything away with one hand. “She hasn’t woken yet.”
He’s angry. No, he’s furious. I hear it in the even tone he forces, in the willpower it takes to keep his voice level. It’s not a factual or conversational kind of level. It’s the kind that festers with uncontainable emotions.
“I kept your dinner warm,” he says, studying me with that shocking blue gaze that’s almost see-through. “You must be starving.”
He’s always taken care of my needs, even when he’s angry with me. I follow him to the kitchen on auto-pilot, letting him pull out a stool for me at the counter.
When I’ve taken a seat, he pours a glass of alcohol-free wine and pushes it my way before going to the oven.
“You’re not using the crutches,” I remark.
After fitting an oven glove, he removes a plate from the warming-drawer and carries it to me. His smile is flat. “Slow progress.”
“That’s a big milestone. You shouldn’t make light of it.”
“Eat,” he says, jutting his chin toward the food before returning the oven glove to its place in the drawer.
Perversely, I’m hungry. Despite everything twisting me up inside, my stomach reminds me with a growl I need energy.
Saverio’s expression darkens. “When was the last time you ate?”
The fact that I have to think about it deepens his frown.
I take a sip of the red wine, enjoying its fruity flavor. “Breakfast.” I think.
“You’re breastfeeding.” His mouth sets in a hard line. “You should take better care of yourself.”
“I know.” It was an exceptional day.
He takes a seat across from me, watching me eat in silence. When my plate and my glass are empty, he asks, “Dessert? There are strawberries. They’re from a hothouse upstate.”
“No, thank you. The food was delicious. I’ve had enough.”
He stands. Leaning heavily on his cane, he walks to the hallway. He doesn’t wait to see if I follow. The command is unspoken.
We need to talk.
The understanding is taken for granted.
I hover for a second, scavenging energy when I have none left, and slip off the stool. He enters his study just as I turn the corner into the hallway.
In the door frame of the study, I pause to take in the familiar room. Saverio rearranged some furniture, but it still smells like him, like his spicy cologne and man. After all that’s changed, his scent is the same, unlike the man I hope to one day find again inside that scarred and battered body.
He stands in the middle of the floor with his back turned to me, studying the painting of someone’s Russian ancestor above his desk.
When I cross the threshold, he says, “Close the door.”
He can’t see me. My flat shoes are quiet on the carpet. He must be developing those sharp senses again.
I close the door and lean against it. “You deserve an explanation.”
“Damn right,” he says, spinning around and unleashing all his bottled-up anger on me. “We’re going to start with the inventory and the video.”
Damn you, Dante.
Why couldn’t he stick to the plan?
I push off the door and take a few steps closer. “Are you working on the new plan?”
His eye creases in the corner. The patch obscures the artificial one but it fails to hide his livid expression. “How did you get it?”
“Simple.” I shrug. “I asked.”
“You asked Elena,” he says, his tone dangerously low.
“There’s no harm in trying.”
He crosses the floor, stopping so close to me I can smell the mint and coffee on his breath. “You put your life in danger.”
“We all do every day.”
He wraps his fingers around my throat, keeping me in place with a possessive hold. “This was different.”
I lift my chin. “How?”
His pupil contracts. The anger that gleams in the depth of his eye like a pinpoint of black against the bluest of skies warns me that I’m treading on thin ice.
“You went to Raphael Morelli’s pregnant wife, the man who tried to kill you and your baby, and you risked your life in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”
I smile. “I think you can give me a little more credit.”
He tightens his fingers marginally, the act dominant and controlling. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”
“Yes.”
His nostrils quiver as he digests my answer. “Yet you still did it.”
“I got what I wanted, and I’m still here.”
“That’s not the point,” he says, reeling me in.