Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“This has all been about my father, hasn’t it?”
“Enough questions. Your food is getting cold.” I adjust in my seat and begin to load a helping of food on my plate. I need to change the subject. Now is not the time to go down that road because if I do, the truth will come out, and I can’t have that. Not yet. Not until after she is completely mine.
Siân forcefully pushes the plate from in front of her, causing the other dishes to shift to the opposite end.
I drop my fork and inhale deeply. “This little tantrum of yours is starting to piss me off, and you don’t want to see me angry. So this is how things are going to work. My father is going to visit. You’re going to eat your fucking breakfast and be a good girl. And maybe I’ll take you to see Cynthia.”
“You promise.” Her entire mood changes, the fight turning into desperation.
I don’t like it, but I can’t tell her that. Instead, I say I give her the only truth I feel should matter. “I’ll never break a promise to you, topolina. Never.”
We stare at each other for a brief second, the moment fleeting because we’re finally joined by my father, Samuele Russo. Dressed in a pair of slacks and a crisp white button-down shirt, he confidently settles into the seat next to me.
He doesn’t speak, but then again, he never does. He makes no introductions but simply commands the attention of everyone around him.
My father watches Siân, his expression blank and almost lifeless. I know this look all too well and notice the familiar veins in his forehead before they start to protrude. It’s his one and only tell. All my life, he’s been hard to read, his anger just as temperamental as mine. But I learned early on that when he’s gotten to be so perplexed by something, the veins make an appearance. And normally, that means he’ll be ordering me to kill someone.
There is a shift in the air as the two stare at each other. Siân’s posture goes rigid, and her breathing hastens. As if she recognizes him but can’t quite put her finger on it, she inadvertently scoots closer to me. She keeps her gaze trained on him, and she curls into herself like a baby gazelle about to be pounded by a lion.
The need to protect Siân nags at me, and before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself leaning toward her. Samuele then directs his attention to me, and a barely-there smirk forms at the corners of his mouth.
“Quindi non solo sei un rompicoglioni, ma sei anche un bugiardo,” he intones. So not only are you a pain in my ass, but you're a liar as well.
My jaw clenches, but not because of his choice of words—no—this is a typical conversation for us. My father isn't gentle, not when I was a child and certainly not now. So it’s not what he says to me that gets a rise out of me but the meaning behind the words.
Siân breaks my concentration with a soft touch on my forearm. “I don’t want to be here,” she whispers to me.
I place my hand on top of hers but don’t get the chance to provide her even the slightest comfort.
“Speak up, girl. Ain’t no need to be shy,” he interjects, his accent heavy.
Siân swallows while shifting awkwardly in her seat. She’s afraid but quickly pulls it together. Heat builds in my chest at the thought of her being scared of him or anyone else. And I have to calm myself so that I don’t lash out. I still my desire to smack that smirk off his face. Usually, seeing Siân’s fear fuels me, but right now, it only pisses me off.
“You know,” Samuele takes the pitcher of water and pours some for himself. “You must be a lucky girl to have survived the fire that murdered your family.”
Her spine snaps straight. “You knew my family.”
He takes a sip and releases a sarcastic chuckle. “Christian non te l'ha detto?” Christian hasn’t told you?
Siân darts her gaze between us, confusion written all over her face. “Told me what?”
I stare at him, seething. This bastard and his mind games. He wants to ruffle her feathers, wants to get under my skin. It’s his game—we all have one, really. I like to watch, and dear ole Dad loves the seed of doubt. It’s the only thing that’s gotten him where he is today. It’s the only reason Marco failed that night.
“Nothing,” I deadpan. “Eat something so that we can go.”
“È questo che hai fatto? Spendere soldi e risorse in America per un po' di figa?” Is this what you've been doing? Spending my money and resources in America for some pussy?
“Guarda la tua bocca,” I bark. Watch your mouth.