Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
“Stop it, Francesca. I have to be at work.” My voice sounds thick and unnatural.
“Okay,” she says, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. “I guess I’ll just have to take care of my problems myself.”
I turn to go, but when she releases a sexy moan, I know it’s impossible.
“Okay, I think I might have five minutes to spare,” I say, peeling off my soaking clothes and rejoining her in the shower.
She laughs and melts into my arms.
One hour later, I’m in my car heading to the meeting with my cousins and Zio Marco when Franco Barbieri calls. At my command, Vance moves the call to my earbuds.
“Good morning, Don Barone,” Franco greets. He sounds flustered.
“I’m moving you and your family to a safe house in the Bronx before the day ends. Someone will come by later and tell you exactly what to pack and how it will be done,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he breathes. “There was an attack last night at the club, but I escaped unscathed.”
I frown. “And what about Francesca’s mother?”
“She’s fine.”
“What about the other thing?” Franco asks.
“What other thing?”
My voice has turned to ice, but the old fool blunders in anyway. “Have you told my granddaughter the real reason you married her?”
“Franco, how about I tell you this other thing?”
“What?”
“The next time you bring this up, I’ll feed your tongue to you.”
He makes a hissing sound as he sucks in a breath.
“You know I don’t make empty threats.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“I’ll be in touch.” I snap my finger, and Vance hangs up.
Chapter Twenty
FRANCESCA
“Imiss home, but hubby and I will be in New York in a few days.”
Louisa gasps. “What? What did you just say?”
“I said we’ll be back home in a few days,” I say changing the TV channel while I hold the phone to my ear.
“No, not that part.”
“I miss you?”
“Not that part either,” she mutters. “Back to the part where you called Valentino your hubby.”
A blush creeps up my cheek, and I roll my eyes. “Oh my God, Louisa-”
“You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?” She laughs. “I knew you would. That man is such a stud. If he wasn’t your husband…”
“Louisa.” I try to suppress this newfound jealousy eating at my brain of Valentino being with another woman. “He’s my husband, okay? So rein in that wild imagination of yours.”
“Fine.” She huffs. “But…er… didn’t you say I could have him at your wedding?”
When I gasp, she cackles like a hyena.
“Louisa,” I warn.
“Relax. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. There’s something I want to ask you, though.”
“What?”
“What about Thomas?”
Louisa is the closest person I have to a sister, so she’s one of the few people who knows about Thomas. I sigh. “The last time I saw him was at the wedding.”
“He was at your wedding?” Louisa screeches. “I didn’t know he was that stupid.”
“Valentino saw him and told him to scram.”
“As he should, hello! How dumb is this guy?” Louisa sneers.
“You’ve never liked him, have you?”
“Never. He’s pathetic and he’s definitely not right for you,” she says heartily. “You need a man like Valentino, and I’m glad you—”
“He’s a killer?” I regret saying the words as soon as they slip out, but I can’t take them back. Truth is Valentino may be a killer, but he has a much bigger heart than I thought.
“Yes. He is a killer,” Louisa agrees decisively. “But whether you like it or not, you are a Barbieri. The Barbieri family may no longer be in its glory days, but there are still people out there looking to kill you. You don’t need a mama’s boy who will run at the first sound of a gunshot. You need a man like Valentino who will kill for you and drink the blood of your enemies.”
Louisa’s words chill me, but she is also right. With Valentino, I feel protected, and I can be sure my family is too. There’s a knock on my room door.
“Hang on,” I say into the phone and go to open it.
“Good afternoon, Signora,” a woman with a sunburned face, says in Italian. By her broad accent, I assume she works for the family, probably in the kitchen or garden. “There’s someone downstairs to see you-”
“Valentino is not here,” I tell her in my rusty Italian. “Tell them to return later.”
“It’s a woman,” she says. “And she’s asking for you.”
“For me?” I frown.
“Yes, Signora.”
It occurs to me that it could be Freya or any of the other wives of the family. They did promise to visit. “Ask her to wait in the living room and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
The woman nods and leaves.
“I’ll call you back, Louisa. There’s someone here to see me.”
“Okay. Bye.”
With Louisa gone, I get out of the fluffy toweling robe, change quickly into a simple sundress, and head downstairs. As soon as I enter the living room door the scent of strong perfume hits me. The smell is vaguely familiar, but the woman standing in front of a glorious painting of an ancient Italian god is not. I pause for a second, my forehead creasing, trying to remember where I have encountered the fragrance before. When the memory will not come, I walk towards her curiously.