Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I come to, vaguely aware that someone is carrying our bags, and that this home he’s taking me to is situated at the top of a hill. Of course. The Rossi family vineyard. He helps me get ready for bed, stripping me out of my clothes, and I lay down, asleep before my head hits the pillow.
When I wake up the next day, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t wanna open my eyes. Mario isn’t beside me. I don’t know if he ever even came to bed last night. I hear his voice in another room, either talking to staff or on the phone, but I roll over and fall back asleep. If I stay asleep I don’t have to face the ultimatum he gave me.
The door to the bedroom creaks open, and I hear him quietly enter.
“Are you awake?“
I wonder if he feels the same pain that I do. I wonder if he feels that same deep need for connection so badly it feels we’re a hopeless cause. I wonder if a part of him longs for companionship like I do, or if he’s happy to be the perpetual player. Making love last night doesn’t feel as redemptive now as I’d thought at first then. It makes the pain of our necessary break-up sting like an open wound.
Before I’m even fully awake, before I’m ready to talk, a doorbell rings. Someone, I’m assuming staff, opens the front door. I hear the distinct clicks of high heels entering. Mario looks up, blinks, and quickly leaves the room.
Now I am definitely awake. I hear someone greet him, and him returning the greeting. “It’s probably just a cousin or an aunt or something,” I tell myself. I throw off the covers and get out of bed. I look down at myself and realize that I’m naked, of course. I look around the room and find a robe hanging on a hook, so I quickly put it on. And peek out the door just in time to see a gorgeous woman who looks like she could grace the cover of a fashion magazine, dressed in impeccable clothing, giving Mario a familiar embrace before she kisses both his cheeks.
My throat is clogged with emotion as I shut the door. But why should it come as no surprise to me that women are going to flock to Mario? His charming ways definitely aren’t restricted to America. I don’t understand a word of the Italian she speaks but hear her say something about the American. Is she saying something mean? Have I been downgraded to “the American?”
I stumble into the bathroom, find a towel, and turn on the water to take a shower. I want to drown it out, all of it.
Fake your death… fake your death… That means turning my back on who I’ve become. It means giving up who I’ve always tried to be. At what I’ve worked at my entire life.
I shake my head, thankful that the shower washes my tears right down the drain.
When I exit the bathroom, I crack the bedroom door open and peek out again. They’re sitting closely—comfortably—on a couch outside the bedroom talking amicably, and her knee brushes his. I watch as he brushes a tendril of her hair behind her ear and swallow the lump in my throat.
I was only one of the women he’s been with. I knew from the beginning that I didn’t matter, not really. That other women have come and gone and I would, too. I knew he was a player and he didn’t really pretend otherwise, if I’m honest. I don’t know why he brought me here, but I wonder if he even fabricated what he said about my work, the club, Grady.
I’ll have to do some digging of my own. I’ve gotten this far without relying on a man and don’t plan on starting now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mario
It doesn’t take long for it to get out that I’m in Tuscany again. I wish it did, because I have a history here and I don’t like it surfacing, especially now, when Emma is so insecure. An ex-girlfriend of mine coming to visit first thing in the morning is not what I’d planned on, and I want to tell her to fuck off. But I can’t because she’s part of a mob group that’s in an alliance with us, and it makes no sense to start a fight over nothing.
I gracefully, quietly try to tell Eloisa that I’m not interested. She stands and looks toward the bedroom, but Emma has shut the door. “You have someone else.” She says it like an accusation. I should’ve expected something like this would happen eventually, that one of my scorned ex-lovers would try to throw a wrench into things.
I don’t deny that I have someone else, but I don’t want anyone to know who’s here either. As is the case with every woman I’ve ever been with, I didn’t lead her on. I never let her think there was more between us than there actually was. Still, some women don’t take rejection well, and clearly Eloisa is one of them.