Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Her eyebrows knit together. It’d be cute if she didn’t look like she wanted to kick me in the crotch again. “Our room?”
“Come on, baby,” I say and we finally get out of the car.
She reluctantly follows. My house is right in the middle of the southern side of the street with a red door and black shutters. Mom hates my color choices. “That house is empty right now,” I say, pointing at the building to the left. “It’s my little brother Angelo’s, but he’s in prison right now. That place is my sister Elena’s, she’s a couple years younger than me and a real pain in my ass. You’ll like her.”
I feel strangely nervous as I lead my wife inside. My place isn’t what anyone would call traditional, but it fits with my specific personality quirks. She pauses on the threshold and stares at the enormous room in front of her—the downstairs is all one huge open floor plan. There are hardly any walls and no real divisions between the spaces—the kitchen flows into the living room which flows into the office I have set up in the corner—and it’s only broken up by the bathroom and the stairs.
“This is…” She starts and laughs lightly. “I didn’t take you as the modern kind of guy.”
“This suits my tastes.” I watch her as she moves around the downstairs, running her fingers over the backs of the couches, pausing in the kitchen to admire the fancy stove I never use. She opens the refrigerator, shakes her head when she sees there’s only champagne and ketchup inside, and puts her hands on her hips when I demonstrate the equally empty pantry.
“You live like a bachelor,” she says and that’s clearly not a compliment, but it’s not like I mind.
“I’m not home much. I prefer being outside when I can.”
“Yeah?” Her eyebrows quirk. “You don’t seem like the outdoors type.”
“I love hiking,” I say, deadpan.
She laughs and follows me upstairs. This time, she sucks in a surprised breath, when she finds the next level is exactly like the first.
It’s one enormous room with the exception of a walk-in closet and the bathrooms. Otherwise, there are no bedrooms, no separations between anything, only my sleeping area to the right, more lounge space, exercise equipment, and another office section.
“Okay, now this is weird,” she says, walking around very slowly. “I’ve heard of open floor plans for the downstairs, but this—” She stops and stares at where her bag’s propped up against the bed. “Are you really serious about this whole sharing a bedroom thing?”
“I’m serious about making this marriage work, and sharing a bedroom is a very normal part of a relationship.” I gesture past her at the rest of the house. “And there’s also no other bed, let alone bedroom.”
“Except we’re not really in a relationship, right?” She’s staring down at the floor, her face a cloudy mask of emotions. I can’t tell if she’s angry, sad, exhausted, or some combination. “We’re doing this for our families, but that doesn’t mean we need to actually go through the motions.”
“I don’t want to go through the motions,” I say, approaching her slowly. I think of her legs spread, her mouth gagged with her panties, and the strangely protective and tender feelings I’ve been having for her. Those confusing damn emotions I don’t know what to do with.
“Then what do you want? Because from my perspective, we’re only married so that our families can have some weird business deal.”
I’m seething because I don’t know how to answer that. What do I want? There are a million things I want: more money, revenge against my enemies, enough guns to put a bullet in every bastard in this whole city. I want to calm the anxiety I feel rolling down my spine every time I step inside a house, and I want to quiet the screams I hear in my head every time I close my eyes.
“I want you to sleep in my bed,” I tell her since that’s about as simple as I can make things right now.
She looks over her shoulder. “Doesn’t seem to be any other alternative unless I want to sleep on a weightlifting bench.”
“It’s not very comfortable and it smells like sweat. You’re better off with me.”
“We’ll see about that,” she mumbles, and I’m about to show her to the third floor—it’s exactly like this one, but mostly used for storage—when I hear my mother’s voice downstairs calling my name.
Which means chaos is coming.
Stefania looks confused and a little uncomfortable, and I gesture at the stairs.
“My mother,” I explain. “And the rest of the family will be close behind. Ready to meet them?”
She laughs like I’ve lost my mind, but since I’m not kidding, her face slowly gets serious. “Can I get changed first?” she asks. She’s in sweats and a baggy shirt. Comfortable travel clothing, but probably not what she pictured she’d be wearing when she meets her in-laws for the first time.