Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
My cock hardened as several intriguing disciplinary options crossed my mind.
CHAPTER 10
ELLA
The hard slap across my face was a surprise, but not unexpected.
My father did his best talking with his fists.
He wagged his thick sausage finger in front of my nose. “After the stunt you pulled last night, I will tolerate no more sass from you. You will be at dinner to welcome your sister’s fiancé and you better be on your best behavior.”
Blinking back unshed tears, I nodded. “Yes, Father.”
“You and your fucking sister are useless, just like your whore mother.”
I swallowed past the bile in the back of my throat but remained silent. I knew better than to object. The last time I did was when I was fifteen, and all I got for it was three cracked ribs.
“The least you both can do is entertain my guests.”
The bitter taste in my mouth increased.
I knew what he meant by entertain.
“Yes, Father.”
After he stormed off, I walked softly down the terracotta-tiled hallway which stretched through the center of our villa. It was a trick I learned from my mother when she was still with us.
Always step lightly on the balls of your feet.
Never let the heels of your shoes clack against the hardened clay.
Noise was bad.
Noise alerted my father to where we were inside the villa.
Pulling open the glass lattice-window doors, I stepped outside into the lemon grove. Losing myself among the glossy, emerald-green citrus leaves, I inhaled the sweet fragrance of the zagara blooms mixed with the sharp citrus scent of the lemons.
As I ran my fingertip over the pocked smoothness of a lemon clinging to a nearby branch, I realized it would be harvested soon. My mother loved the lemon harvest.
I missed her.
I wished she was here now to give me advice. Her presence would have provided comfort, even though I could never confess what happened with Matteo last night.
Matteo Cavalieri.
My sister’s unwanted fiancé.
That wasn't how I saw him anymore.
Last night I tossed and turned in my bed, plagued by dreams of a towering demon in a devil’s mask. In my dream, he had a long black whip, and he used it to force me to dance among the flames of a raging fire until I burned to cinders.
I didn’t need a degree in psychology to analyze that dream.
Crossing the gravel path, I opened the door to a small, enclosed gazebo nestled in the center of the lemon grove. Its white paint was chipping and the cushions on the wicker chairs and lounge inside had long since faded, but this was my happy place.
I pulled my cello out of the cupboard where I had locked it for safekeeping until I could get out here and sat down. Pulling the instrument close, I raised my bow and slowly began to play Chopin’s "Prelude No. 4 in E Minor."
It was my favorite song to play when I was feeling moody or pensive. The minor key and simple yet solemn melody made it both beautiful and heart-wrenching.
I glided my bow over the cello strings to play the five-note melody over a series of downward-spiraling block chords, the longing and ache portrayed in the music matching my own tormented feelings.
What kind of evil person dreamed of her sister’s fiancé?
A sharp, tightening pain in the center of my chest formed when I faced that I was lying even to my inner self.
I didn’t just dream about Matteo Cavalieri.
I couldn't justify what I did last night, no matter how hard I tried. And I had tried!
Twisting myself every which way, coming up with every excuse I could think of.
I did it for my sister.
It wasn’t my fault.
He forced me.
But always with the same result. Liar. Liar. Liar.
The only bright spot in my cloud of doom and gloom was that my sister had snuck in before my father noticed I was missing and passed out in her bed, completely drunk.
It was doubtful she remembered anything from last night.
I simply had to ensure that she and Matteo didn't have a chance to talk privately tonight.
If things went as planned, Fino would expose my father and the wedding would be canceled, keeping the truth hidden. Easy.
I sighed. My plan sounded like the terrible plot from a sitcom, and tonight’s dinner would probably turn out as comically bad as any slapstick sketch.
I bowed a womp womp noise on my cello.
I set the instrument inside and returned to the villa, in search of caffeine.
My sister was in the kitchen eating a plate of spaghetti aglio olio e pepperoncino for breakfast or, more to the point, a late lunch. The starch, oil, garlic, and chili peppers made it one of her favorite hangover cures.
Without saying anything, I made two espressos, then reached under the cabinet behind the tins of olive oil for the bottle of Fernet-Branca my sister hid there. This was her second favorite cure. After adding a splash of the bitter amaro to her espresso, I returned the bottle to its hiding place. (Father didn’t believe in letting women drink outside of a glass of wine with dinner.)