Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
"What? No," I said, shaking my head. "I haven't even introduced her to—"
"The kid that comes out of that room," Lorenzo said, cutting me off, looking at Alessa. "That's who you're supposed to take care of. Easy enough. There. Now, we have to roll," he said, giving me a hard look.
I wanted to ease Ottavio into this, be around as a buffer for their first introductions. But I wasn't always in control of every aspect of my life anymore. Not since I joined back with the Family.
"We'll be fine," Alessa said, shrugging.
"Here," I said, reaching into my jacket pocket for a pen, then grabbing a napkin to jot down my number. "This is my cell. Call or text if you need anything. Oh, and there's cash in the mug cupboard if you guys want to order food. And—"
"Let's go, Santi," Lorenzo said from the door to the hall. "She can handle it. Let's go."
"Text me when you get a second, so I can program your number, and keep you updated," I demanded, waiting for her to respond.
"Sure. No problem," she agreed, already reaching for her phone.
"If you need—"
"We're fine. Go. Before your brother drags you out of here by your tie," she added, giving Lorenzo a glance.
Then, with no other choice, I followed my brother out of my apartment.
And I left my recently motherless, grieving, sullen son with a woman I barely knew.
Chapter Four
Alessa
Santiago Costa clearly had money.
What was even more impressive about that, though, was the fact that his money couldn't have been mob money. If he'd been out of the Family since he was a teenager, that meant he'd found some other way to become extremely wealthy, judging by the multi-million-dollar apartment he shared with his son.
It was a fancy-ass place, if a bit sterile for my taste.
It was weird.
Santiago had been married. His wife lived here. But the place had no feminine touches. It was almost showroom-quality sparse in the details.
There was no art on the just barely off-white walls, no throw pillows on the cream couches that catty-cornered to face the massive white marble fireplace that matched the kitchen counters.
The floors were the only real pop of color, a deep brown wide-planked hardwood floor.
There was no art on the walls, or mass-produced little knick-knacks or signs with cheesy sayings on them.
It just all felt really, I don't know, cool. Detached.
I guess like the owner himself.
The redeeming part of the whole design was the floor-to-ceiling windows around the whole main space.
A bit nosy by nature, I went through the kitchen, checking out the cabinets, cupboards, pantry, and fridge.
And, well, this Costa family apparently ate very healthy. As in tons of spinach and a whole shelf of lentil pasta healthy.
I was going to starve, it seemed.
Finished with the kitchen, I moved through the living room, checked out the TV, finding a bit of reality TV drama stuff saved. Likely the late wife's selections. I didn't see a man like Santiago sitting down after a long day of work to watch some Real Housewife type of show.
"Who are you?" a voice asked, making me turn.
"Damn, kid, you have the feet of a cat," I told him, a little impressed that he could sneak up on me.
There he was.
The youngest Costa.
He looked like his father in a shrunken form. Dark-haired, tan-skinned, tall—at least he seemed tall for his age. But where his father had dark brown—nearly black—eyes, his son had bright blue ones. Likely from his mom.
If the world was a kind place, he would grow up to be as annoyingly attractive as his father one day.
"I'm Alessa," I explained. "Didn't your father tell you about me?"
"He said I'm getting a babysitter," the kid grumbled.
"That's ridiculous. You're too old for a babysitter," I insisted, because I would have been pissed if someone said that to me when I was his age.
"What are you then?"
"Your personal bodyguard," I told him. I probably wasn't supposed to say that. But what were they going to do? Fire me?
"You?"
"Girls can be bodyguards. Don't give me that look. If you came out to greet me earlier, you would have seen me toss Emilio onto his back."
"Yeah?" he asked, lips twitching just a little.
"He's going to have a nice bruise on his as—butt," I said, catching myself.
"But why did they pick a girl when Uncle Enzo has mostly guy bodyguards?"
"I guess they figure I will blend in better. Or maybe they think I know how to cook for you. Which, I don't. So don't get your hopes up. I'm a top-notch takeout orderer, though."
"I never get to eat takeout."
"Well, that is going to change. At least for the next like two and a half months."
"That's how long you're going to be here?"
"Seems like it. You pissed?"
"I, ah, I guess it's okay."
"So, you're Ottavio, right? What?" I asked when he grimaced.