Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
The clothes he picked out are understated but expensive, and I’m pretty sure they’d be really flattering, while I’m wearing faded old jeans and a ratty button-down. And since I have no other options—
“I’m not putting this on because you told me to,” I say through my teeth as I snatch the clothes off the bed. “I’m doing it because I don’t have other options.”
“I know,” he says, sounding fucking smug. “You don’t have to go hide, darling wife. We might as well get comfortable around each other.”
I slam the door to the bathroom in his dickhead face.
He puts his hand on the small of my back as he steers me towards one of the nicest houses on the block. It’s right in the middle of the oasis with big, peaked roofs and a dark green door. The exterior is pristine, and the landscaping looks like it’s worked on daily. Several guards hang around, all of them armed to the teeth, though they seem friendly with Simon.
I’d wriggle away from my husband’s touch except I’m officially on duty now and have to play along.
Which means I need to at least pretend like he doesn’t piss me off.
I’m wearing the outfit he chose, and I have to admit I look really good. The blouse flatters my figure and the slacks fit my ass like a pair of cherub angels cupping the cheeks, and the jewelry he chose works really well with the whole ensemble.
My only rebellion is the underwear: I kept on my worn beige bra and tattered white panties.
We step in through the front door into a quiet, cool entryway. Paintings of Chicago’s history line the walls, and a vase that looks like it’s antique holds a spray of beautiful flowers. The place smells like perfume.
“Now, listen to me,” Simon says, his mouth near my ear, his hand still on the small of my back. I shiver, closing my eyes and wishing I could jab my fist into his throat. “I’m not sure what my father knows about you yet. Let me do the talking and follow my lead.”
“What’s our story?” My stomach starts to twist into knotty nerves. I’ve been too busy feeling angry and sorry for myself, and I haven’t had much time to really think about what my life is going to be like from now on.
“The truth.” We climb the stairs as he talks. “I caught you in a compromised position. We married because you need my money and are willing to play the proper, obedient mafia wife, while I married you because I need a good pair of hips and a fresh womb to carry my children. It’s a reasonable arrangement.”
“You are incredibly repulsive,” I say, shivering at the words fresh womb. “Seriously, that’s going to work on your dad?”
“He’ll understand.” Simon’s face is grave and there’s something in his bearing that makes me pause. I want to be pissed that he’s talking about me like some fancy baby factory, just a pussy and the potential for an heir, but he’s not kidding around. He seems almost nervous. “We are about continuity for the Famiglia. He doesn’t care whether we’re in love or not, only that you’ll be loyal and provide healthy babies, that’s all.”
I chew on my lip and look away. What sort of father doesn’t care about his son’s own happiness? That’s what it sounds like, anyway, but this is a world that I wasn’t born into and can’t really understand, and none of that matters to me.
If Simon’s Dad is a prick, that’s his problem.
I’m here for a paycheck.
We reach an ornate office door. Simon knocks once and a voice from inside calls for us to enter. I look over my shoulder, wondering if there’s still time to run, but Simon steers me past the threshold and then it’s too late.
Simon’s father sits behind a large wooden executive desk. He’s reading a file of some sort, glasses perched on his nose, an expression of distaste on his face. He’s handsome with silver-gray hair and a good jawline, and I can see a lot of Simon in him, or I guess it’s the other way around.
The office itself is stacked with lacquered wood, old leather-bound books, filing cabinets, a small bar, and several couches and chairs around a fireplace. A thick rug sucks up our footfalls.
“Good, you’re here,” Simon’s father says. He glares at the papers in front of him. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard what your boys have been up to yet? Harassing a fucking Santoro-backed deli downtown, right in goddamn broad daylight. I’m reading the fucking report. It says right here—” He looks up, squints at Simon, then looks at me. Surprise registers in his expression, and suddenly I feel Simon stiffen next to me.
Something’s wrong.
Silence follows. Simon’s father tilts his head, making a face like he’s trying to place me, and gestures in my direction like he’s wondering what the fuck I’m doing here. And that’s when I realize that Simon’s father never knew about me at all. This meeting was about something else—and Simon must’ve been confused about it.