Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
He said nothing but inclined his head in a way that spoke more words than he could have ever uttered verbally.
Feeling weird in my skin, I hurried away from him and found Gio in our father’s office. He was pacing, his cell pressed to his ear as he barked out orders in Italian to whomever was on the other end.
My brother hadn’t sensed me enter, and I stood still and silent as he disconnected the call, tossed the phone onto the desk, and cursed out loud. He walked to the bar, started pouring himself a Scotch, and then cursed again and just lifted the bottle straight to his mouth.
“Gio,” I said softly and watched as his back straightened, his muscles tensing under the black, long-sleeved button-up he wore.
He took another swig before he turned to look at me. He scanned me from head to toe, clearly examining me for injuries. Not like he’d see any, even if I had them on the outside. I wore sweats and a sweater so baggy I swam in them.
I opened my mouth, but before I could utter a word, he strode toward me and pulled me into a painful bear hug.
“Sorellina,” he said in a harsh voice. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine. My brain is just a little screwed up, but Amara woke up and seems like she’ll be fine, so everything will be okay.” That’s what I told myself, anyway.
His enormous body shook, and he exhaled as if he had an immense weight off his shoulders.
“Mother is like a fucking zombie.” He pulled away and ran a hand over his hair, mussing the short, dark strands. “Just keeps tossing back glasses of wine and murmuring Father's name like he was a fucking saint sacrificed.” He said something harsh and unintelligible and went back to the scotch.
“Will everything be okay?” Hearing Gio say the words would go a long way in making me feel better, even if he had to lie to me.
He didn’t answer right away, but after a long moment he turned to face me. “I’ll make sure everything is okay. Don’t worry, sorellina. The nightmare of Father’s rule is fucking over.”
Chapter 7
Claudia
My father’s death had been deemed a horrible crime, a murder caused by Francesca.
But we knew the truth. All of us did.
But no one spoke about that.
The rumors had shifted to paint Francesca as a girl obsessed with a powerful man. When he refused her advances, she lied about her pregnancy being Marco’s when, in fact, she’d gotten knocked up by Edoardo.
That couldn't have been further from the truth.
I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear my thoughts.
I didn’t care that Marco was being lowered into the dirt to rot. I didn’t care that my mother was dressed all in black, a veil covering her face as she sobbed, all but throwing herself on the casket.
She was embarrassing herself. Didn’t she remember that the man she called husband did nothing but beat and degrade her?
And here she was sobbing like she’d lost the greatest love of her life.
It infuriated me, and I curled my hands into fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.
I welcomed the pain. It reminded me I was stronger than this bullshit. So I stood next to my mother silently and kept my head down.
Around me, people probably thought I was a grieving daughter. But in reality all I could think about was going back home, making sure Amara was truly going to be okay, and trying to put all of this behind me.
I felt a tingling on the back of my neck and lifted my hand to rub my nape as I glanced up and looked around.
Men and women garbed in black surrounded the plot, so many people that it was hard to see past the sea of bodies.
I could see paparazzi and several news stations just over the hill, trying to get the money shot of Marco Bianchi, Cosa Nostra capo, being put to rest.
There were a few people glancing at me, some with sympathy in their eyes, others with curiosity. But most looked right through me.
Then there were the ones who were eyeing me as if I could be used, plucked from my mother’s grasp, and degraded because they needed a fresh young wife.
I was about to face forward once again when a dark figure at the top of the hill caught my attention. He was too far away for me to make out any distinguishable features, but I just knew it was Dmitry.
And I couldn’t look away. I knew he wasn’t here to pay his condolences. It was strange that I had a feeling he attended my father’s funeral only because he got sadistic pleasure in knowing Marco Bianchi was dead.
I couldn’t lie and say I didn’t feel the same way.