Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“And if I leave?”
She grimaces. “I wouldn’t advise that.”
I turn to see Romeo staring straight at me. “We will find you and it will not go well for you.” My jaw drops, but no one even blinks.
Who is this violent, threatening family? I shiver uncomfortably.
“But I won’t marry you,” I whisper.
“Then marry me,” Mario says. “I’ll treat you right, mia donna.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Are we really talking about marriage like we would a date for homecoming?”
Rosa laughs. “I wondered,” she says as she gets to her feet, “if you had connived your way in here. But, no. You haven’t. You don’t want to be here anymore than I do.”
I don’t know if there’s a single Rossi I like at this point. Maybe Marialena…
“Clearly,” she continues, “you’re incredibly innocent. Naïve, even, aren’t you?” She turns to Romeo. “She has no idea who we are, brother.” She stretches her arms and sighs. “The rest of us should go now and allow our brother to give our houseguest a bit of an education.” She winks at me. “Let me know when you’re ready to tour the garden. It’s my favorite place to be.” I wonder why she winks at me. This family is so strange.
“Dinner at six,” Romeo says. “Mama, I’ll put her on the second floor across from Marialena.” Tosca nods.
Romeo turns back to me. “I’ll show Vittoria to her room. The rest of you come to dinner promptly.” The tone of his voice dismisses everyone from the room.
Before they leave, the large, muscled one who I think they call Orlando—names are blurring at this point—smiles at me. “Welcome,” he says. “My family welcomes you.”
Sure they do. Right.
Still, I thank him politely. I can be polite, too, even if no one else can.
That leaves the two of us. Me, and the man I once thought an angel, who may choose to make good on his threat at any minute.
I was wrong. I was so wrong.
I stare at him, the large breadth of him. He seems to radiate so much anger, I half expect fire to come out of his nostrils like a dragon. He’s frowning at a paper in his hand, before he shakes his head. When his gaze comes to me, I take a step back. There’s raw, visceral hatred in his eyes I’ve never seen before. My stomach turns in knots.
“I told you never to come near me again,” he says, pushing himself up from the desk. He looms as he approaches, probably six to ten inches or more taller than I am. I take an involuntary step back.
“I had no idea you were here. I have no idea who you are. I told you the truth. I came here because I got a letter asking me to come.”
How could a man named Romeo be so unromantic? I think wildly as he draws nearer. He bares his teeth with a low growl that only magnifies the animalistic vibe.
“You think I’m stupid?”
“And you think I’m lying?” I snap back. He’s coming closer to me, so close I can smell the faintest scent of cigar mingled with the masculine scent of pine. I hate cigars. I would never kiss a man who smoked, much less do any more.
“Step back,” I warn, which is probably about as effective as telling a wild animal not to attack. If I screamed, I already know that no one in this house will come running. His father might bluster and fume, but Romeo is the true head of this house.
“You saw what I did last night,” he says in a furious whisper. “You came here to threaten me. Don’t you know that no one threatens the Rossi family?”
My own anger’s starting to boil. “Threaten you? Are you that full of yourself that you can’t imagine that someone doesn’t even know who the hell you are? And what have I done to make you think that I threatened you? I’ve done literally nothing but respond to a letter. And as far as last night, who the hell asked you to intervene? I could’ve handled it myself.” Like hell.
His eyes spark at me. I expect him to stand and fume, but apparently he has different plans. When he reaches me, he tugs my hair until it falls loose from the bun. Without prelude or apology, he wraps a hand in my hair—in my hair—and drapes it around his fist. My mouth gapes open involuntarily when he yanks my head back, baring my throat to him.
“How dare you,” he growls. “How fucking dare you come in here and talk to me that way?”
I’ve had it. I don’t care what the consequences are, no asshole’s going to manhandle me and act like he’s God’s Fucking Gift to Women. I go to kick him, but he knows this move. He’s been here before. He blocks the kick, swivels, and before I know what’s happening I’m pinned up against the wall. His arms are on either side of me, trapping me. The cords of muscles along his neck and arms flex as he holds himself back from hurting me.