Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
I grunted as I wrote, pissed beyond anything I’ve ever been. “Pipe down before you wake the kids.” Son of a bitch! I looked around for something that could maim him.
“If you want to fuck you just have to say it. No need to throw tantrums.” I think I blacked out from anger.
GABRIEL
I wonder what her issue is now. After her last snit, she’d seemed to calm down and was busy writing in her book while muttering to herself every once in a while. I don’t think she realized that I could see her reflection on the screen, or she might’ve kept those glares she kept throwing at me to herself. I’ve had her twice since her first tantrum, and it’s still not enough.
I know she trauma bonds; she’d done it before, so I know how important it is for her to work through whatever is going on inside her head with sex, but she doesn’t know that, and she doesn’t feel comfortable just telling me what she wants.
On top of that, we both have anger that we need to work through. I see that she’d prefer to go the confrontational route; that’s not me. Actions have consequences, as I’ve learned, so it was best, I think, to think things through before acting. She’s hyper and looking for instant gratification. I’m methodical and plotting ways to keep her attached to me.
I haven’t even given much thought to this fiancé of hers because from the second we laid eyes on each other, she was mine again, no questions asked. I’m beginning to wonder if she’d come home at this time in some kind of subconscious bid to get me to step in and stop her. But no, that can’t be it because this Mancini guy is the one who’d found her.
He found her as a way to get me back here, so why the fiancé? Something’s not adding up. And where is this guy? Is he here with her? or was he planning to come at a later date? I don’t recall her saying either way. It doesn’t matter; none of it does. This guy, whoever he is, would never marry my woman, and he sure as heck won’t get near my kids again. I’m still not sure about the truth surrounding that since she’s given conflicting stories.
But Gianna doesn’t lie. No matter what she’s been through, her personality, the core of who she is, couldn’t have changed that much, could it? I’m actually supposed to be checking on things in Sicily, but she’s in the room when I thought she’d be in bed by now, so I can’t do anything with her there, sitting behind me, glaring and growling.
“Gianna!” She popped her head up like she’d forgotten I was there. I sighed and sought my inner calm. “Did you have something to say to me?” She looked down at the book she’d been furiously writing in a second ago. Again, not knowing that I could see her, she made a rude gesture with her finger behind my back.
“Nope, nothing, why? Do you have something to say to me? Hmm?” If she were standing, she’d have been tapping her foot with arms akimbo. But since she was sitting, she decided to use her head instead, flinging it from side to side and leaning her neck to the side.
“T’amu.” Yes, I know, it’s true, I do love her, but I was saying it now for the sole purpose of knocking her off-kilter.
“What did you say?” You heard me, I’m sure, but since you want to play that game.
“I said you’re a real northern girl.” She sneered at my Sicilian ass. Just another fight in the Sicilian Italian debate as to who’s better.
She must’ve had enough of my shit because she left the lounger she’d been lying on and headed for the bedroom. She started to pull back on the now torn shirt, and I left my seat and went into the closet, returning with one of my shirts that she used to love to sleep in and tossed it to her.
It landed on the bed, and she just looked at it, sneered, and continued pulling on the torn shirt. I didn’t say a word because I noticed that my nonverbal communication has been pissing her off. So, I simply tore the shirt off again and pulled mine on over her head. And just to make a point, I took the torn shirt and flung it into the fireplace. She looked like she was about to have another one of her fits. I’m not sure why I like this side of her or why I want to rile her up so that she’d fly off the handle again.
I love my old Gianna, the soft shy girl who needed me to stand between her and the rest of the world, but I have to admit that I love this new side to her as well. I love that this is the woman who raised my children on her own because thinking of the lost and lonely Gianna being in that position without me there would tear me apart.