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)
“Have you told her?” he asks.
That kills my erection for good, and rage fills my chest. “Do I owe you any explanation?” I snap, restraining myself from using more distasteful words.
“I’m sorry, I’m just—”
“Francesca is my wife now, and what I tell my wife is none of your business or anyone else’s. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but I don’t take well at all to any kind of meddling from anyone.”
Franco stays quiet, and I know he’s offended. No man takes kindly to being spoken down to, especially one who has tasted and held power before. Franco Barbieri used to rule his domain with an iron fist, very much like I do now, but he made the mistake of handing his throne to his son, Paulo Barbieri, and the bastard ran it to the ground faster than even I expected him to. Taking the control from him was like taking candy from a baby, and I’ll boast about it every chance I get. And Franco fucking Barbieri can kiss my dick since his daughter refuses to.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m just worried about my granddaughter. She is my life.”
Yeah, right! That’s why you sacrificed her to save your wrinkled skin, I nearly say, but manage to bite my tongue at the last minute.
“You worrying about my wife’s safety is a slap to my face, Barbieri. It seems every word that comes out of your mouth pushes you closer to your grave. I’ll do you the favor of ending this call before you find a red dot on your forehead.”
I tap the bud, ending the call.
Fuck that old man.
Have you told her? I remember Barbieri’s question and feel new anger pour into my belly. I don’t owe Francesca any explanation concerning our marriage. Whatever reason she thinks I married her for is enough for us to go on. She doesn’t need to know the truth. I slip my hands into the pocket of my pants and feel the gold bracelet between my fingers. I always carry this piece of jewelry everywhere I go because it reminds me of everything good and pure.
“We’re here, Boss.”
I look out the window, and we’re parked in front of Pavilion Margaux, the most exclusive private brothel and poker house in Paris. The owner, Orlando Carlo, is not only one of the few people whose company I enjoy, but he is also one of my many ears scattered around France. Before I leave the car, I meet the gaze of my men. “Keep constant communication with the men at the hotel.” My voice remains calm despite the angry throbbing of my blood. “If she so much as opens her bedroom door, I want to know.”
They nod.
With a glance at the two burly bouncers at the door who nod respectfully at me, I slip through the unobtrusive entrance. As soon as I enter the inner sanctum of the club, my ears catch the soft, sultry voice of the singer. I recognize the voice immediately. Nina, she has warmed my bed in the past. I head to the bar and perch on a stool as my eyes move to the low stage to find Nina. Her voice is not bad, but there is no doubt that she sucks cock better than she sings.
A goblet of brandy arrives next to me and I feel a presence beside me. I know who it is before I turn to look because no one would dare to come this close to me unannounced, at least, without worrying about losing his hand. I down the fiery liquid in one gulp and hold out my hand for the bottle. Orlando presses it into my hand, and I take a swig straight from the bottle.
“What the fuck are you doing here on your wedding night?” he asks, a wry smile on his face.
“Don’t get me started.” I keep my gaze on the stage where Nina is now performing for me. She’s wearing a red silk dress that hugs her body as she moves sultrily on stage, her eyes drinking me in from across the room despite the crowd of people shouting her name below the stage.
“She's hot, isn’t she?”
“Hmm,” I grunt, taking another swig of brandy as Nina winds up her song, her voice hitting a crescendo.
“Not Nina. Francesca.”
Ice replaces the blood in my veins, and I turn to Orlando. “Excuse me?”
Orlando opens his mouth then snaps it shut. He swallows hard. “I-I’m sorry, Boss.”
The only reason I’m not slicing his fucking throat is because I’m even more shocked than him at my reaction.
Orlando and I have discussed women in the past. In fact, aside from the business, women are the second thing we discuss and on a few occasions, I’ve tossed some of the women I’m done with his way. But the mere thought of Orlando looking at Francesca long enough to call her hot makes me want to rip his heart out.