Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Now you can relax a little and let go, I hope.”
“Not something I’m used to doing, but I could try.” His hand moves over my back in long, slow strokes. “You’re the one who needs to relax now. For at least six months.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“No getting jealous over other cartel leaders.”
He can’t see when I roll my eyes. “I’ll do my best, so long as you don’t get jealous—”
“Not gonna happen, so don’t waste your breath.” No, I know better.
He falls silent for so long, his hand going still, that I figure he must’ve fallen asleep. I wouldn’t wake him up for anything and could use a nap myself, so I’m fine with drifting off like this. Even if I wasn’t tired, I wouldn’t move.
I’m starting to fall asleep when he speaks again. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“How to do what?” I whisper, opening my eyes.
“This. Us. I don’t know how to do it. I want you to know that. I’m not trying to withhold shit or make you feel bad. I honestly don’t know how to do this right, and that’s not your fault.” He grunts like he’s frustrated. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m making it worse.”
“You aren’t. Tell me what’s on your mind.” I push myself up on my elbow. “If you want to. I’m here.”
“It’s something I feel like you deserve to know. I… told you my mother was killed.”
“Yeah, the night in the kitchen.”
He nods. “Right. She was murdered.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “By my father.”
Instinctively, I know he won’t like it if I react too strongly. I would normally gasp and get upset and tell him how sorry I am. I catch myself before that happens and murmur, “That’s terrible.”
It gets worse. “He tried to kill me, as well. He left us on the side of the road like we were trash.”
“Oh, Enzo.” I can’t help the tears welling up in my eyes. There’s no stopping them.
He stiffens at the sight. “I’m not looking for pity.”
“I don’t pity you.” I pity the little boy. I’d ask exactly what his father did, but he’d tell me if he wanted me to know. I’m not going to pick at the wound. Maybe he’ll tell me one day.
“You deserve to know, is all. I don’t have the first idea of how to be a husband or a father. But… I want to be. I want our kid to know how it feels to have a family. Not a bunch of bodyguards who work for him, either. Parents.”
“I understand. I want that, too.”
“With me?” he asks as if he doesn’t understand or is afraid to believe it. “You’re sure about that? Even after what I just told you? Christian, my brother, he’s a lot like me. Whatever is fucked up about us has to be partly genetic, right? Are you sure you want me after knowing that?”
“I’m sure.” I run my hand down his face before letting it come to rest on his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady. “You’re you. You aren’t what happened to you. Not unless you want to be. And as for genetics… we’ll work with what we have.”
He takes my hand and lifts it, pressing his lips to my palm. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
The arm around me tightens, pulling me closer to him until my head is on his shoulder. I wait for an answer, but none comes—and when I cautiously lift my head to find out why, I find him sleeping.
34
ENZO
“Wow.”
I look up from the stacks of boxes crammed into the living room to find Alicia frozen in surprise halfway down the stairs, wearing nothing but a nightshirt and a stunned expression. I didn’t expect her to come down this early in the morning and had planned on carrying everything to my study to have it out of the way before she was awake.
Now her eyes bulge at the stacked boxes. “You said you were sending for all of his files, but I didn’t think it would be this much.”
I can imagine how she wouldn’t. There are thirty-seven boxes, all of them delivered less than an hour ago by highly trusted men who’ve been on the family payroll for years. It took a great deal of trust for me to allow them to load the files into boxes, then to fly with them across an ocean and unload them here.
“You know the older generation,” I remind her with a sigh. “He liked to do everything on paper.”
“Now I know why he needed that big house, to store all that paper.”
“There’s a good chance I didn’t need most of this, but he wasn’t the greatest at keeping things organized.”
“What a combination. Fully analog, and he had no organizational system.”
“What did he care? He wasn’t the one who would have to comb through everything once he was gone.” Even though I’m more than slightly irritated with him, I can’t help but experience a twinge of fondness. He did things his way and refused to bend to pressure. He must have been doing something right since he grew our business to what it is today almost single-handedly.