Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
What the fuck was happening to him?
He had never been this soft with another woman outside his family. All of them had been expendable, and he couldn't even recall sparing a few seconds to consider their feelings. The moment he tired of a woman, he would not waste time getting rid of her. The moment a former lover would displease him, he would just as swiftly replace her with someone else.
But Penelope was different, and it was not just because his duty to famiglia required him to marry her.
Maybe it was guilt, Cesare thought broodingly.
She had suffered a lot, and more than she fucking deserved, and all because of his negligence.
He owed her, and that was why he was soft.
Just that.
Memories of Penelope started playing back in his mind, and Cesare bit back a groan when he suddenly found himself reliving the alluring feel of her body against his.
FUCK.
He ended up jerking himself off in the shower, which was something he had not done since he first discovered sex at the tender age of ten.
Cesare headed down to the library afterwards to pour himself a drink, but he soon found himself disconcerted to find the place already occupied, and with his grandmother nursing what looked like a glass of wine in her hand.
The older woman motioned for him to join her, and he obligingly walked forward.
Her grandson's hair was still lightly wet from the shower, and Potenziana smiled in satisfaction upon seeing this.
Cesare was not unaware of the way his grandmother was watching his every move as he poured himself a shot of whisky. "You have something to say, Nonna?"
"I'm only curious...you are spending the night here, I take it?"
"You already know the answer to that," Cesare said dryly.
Potenziana's expression turned crafty. "But you also know what I'm really asking is...why."
His broad shoulders moved in a dismissive shrug. "She seemed to take comfort in knowing that I'll be nearby."
"She's started to trust you then?"
"I believe so."
"And you? Have you started to trust her?"
"We've come to an agreement."
The words didn't disturb her as much as the smoothness of his tone did, and her gaze narrowed. "What kind of agreement?"
"Something that will remain between the two of us."
Potenziana thought of how one's past shaped one's decisions in the present, and her mood turned somber. "She's a good girl, Cesare. It's no surprise if at this early a stage you've come to care—-"
"I do not care for her." Cesare's words came out sharper than he intended, but the way his grandmother visibly took no offense to this only made him feel worse. Disrespect to one's elders was almost akin to blasphemy in famiglia, and a grimace of apology twisted over his lips as he looked at the woman who had been more like a parent to him than both his own father and mother.
"Perdonami, Nonna."
Potenziana only waved a hand. "There is no need to ask for forgiveness, bambino. I know I am being meddlesome—-"
"You have every right to be meddlesome, Nonna. But I also ask, if only for Penelope's sake—-" His voice turned gentle but firm. "Refrain from filling her head with nonsense, per favore. I am not and will never be the type to fall in love, and to say anything to her that would make my fidanzata believe otherwise would only lead me to breaking her heart."
Chapter Seven
Penelope
I'M NOT SURE IF IT'S exhaustion or something else, but I was out like a log last night, and so the first thing I do when I wake up the next morning is to just look around and take things in.
Wow.
The bedroom they've given me is huge. It's about the same size as my entire classroom back in high school, and that's not counting the en-suite. The walls are the same darkly-stained wood used in the living room (or parlor, as everyone here in Boston seems to call it), and while I've never had a good eye for art, what little I know about mafia (or famiglia, as everyone here also insists on using) tells me that the painting across my bed likely costs a fortune.
A walk-in closet precedes the shower, with lining each side are open shelves that are chock-full of brand-new clothes that still have their price tags attached. Just looking at them makes me want to pinch myself. Wasn't it less than twenty-four hours ago that the only thing I owned were the clothes on my back and nothing else?
My body instinctively stiffens when I step into the shower, but instead of the usual trauma turning me into a sobbing mess, what I find myself recalling are memories of a certain mafia boss—-
Oh.
And so I end up crying again, but what my eyes are shedding are happy tears. Life has been so shitty over the past year...that I know it makes me seem foolish to believe so easily that I've been miraculously cleared of my trauma.