Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
THE WHOLE OF BOSTON is in black and white.
People from all walks of life have come to pay their respects to their lost prince.
And it's something I appreciate, as do the rest of my famiglia, even if none of us believes that Giancarlo is dead.
The next couple in line comes up to Sarica and me, and it's so very hard not to smile when I see how the older woman's brows shoot up at Sarica's bright red dress.
Photos of it are all over the Internet. The kind ones, who are always the minority, see it as Sarica's badge of courage. Red is the color of love, and it's Sarica wearing her heart and not just on her sleeve.
Others, however, are the fanciful sort, and ever since key contents of Giancarlo's will have been made public, stories about a rift between Sarica and my grandmother have been spreading nonstop.
If rumors are to be believed, Sarica's red dress is a show of defiance and the other girl's way of saying she's won without saying she's won.
If rumors are to be believed, Nonna has apparently been against her eldest grandson's engagement from the start, and that she was absolutely livid when she learned of the vast fortune Sarica stood to gain through Giancarlo's will.
If rumors are to be believed, and none of us has any faith to cling to, we'd all be drowning in our grief.
But because we know the truth—-
Sarica waits for the couple to walk past us before shaking her head at me.
Did you see that?
I nod.
I totally did.
She wrinkles her nose.
Will this ever end?
I lift my shoulders in a shrug.
Who knows?
The other girl's lips tighten.
You're thinking what I'm thinking, right?
I nod again.
And it's true.
I am thinking what Sarica and the rest of our famiglia are thinking.
And it's how each and every one of us wishes we didn't have to go through this farce at all.
But we have to.
So many assets of our famiglia are tied up to Giancarlo's name. Bank accounts that we can't access. Properties that we can't enter. And so many other things that we can't claim or use until we do as the world wants.
Giancarlo is dead.
It's what they've forced us to claim.
For now.
And it's so easy to see which of the people around me are rejoicing.
They think they've won.
Because they smell blood.
Or so they think.
My gaze moves to the massive twenty-foot marble doors of our mausoleum. The line outside stretches as far as my eyes can see. And then some.
Most of the faces are familiar. And they were people who loved Giancarlo as their prince.
But the others?
Since news of Giancarlo going missing first broke out, and details of his helicopter crashing in the untouched forests of Moskra eventually made public, people who once sought our favor now desired our downfall. They've been sniffing about like a starving pack of hyenas—-
(Because they think they smell blood.)
And circling around us like a soulless kettle of vultures.
(Because they think we're weak.)
It's almost as silly and laughable as those rumors about Sarica and Nonna, really.
And if circumstances were different, we would have let them know exactly what we think of them.
Politely, of course.
But we don't.
We can't.
For now.
Because there are things we must do.
And those things we can only do if we act as they wish.
The world wants us to move on, and so we do.
And that's why he's here.
Finally.
The Beast of New York has come.
And, for better or for worse, he's here to claim me as his bride.
The Beast of New York: Where Is He Now?
A popular streaming service was recently served a cease-and-desist letter by the law firm representing Lorenzo Anghileri, the son of notorious drug lord Luchino Anghileri.
Lorenzo kept a relatively low profile since being pardoned, and his release remains a hotly debated topic.
The most recent confirmed sighting of the reclusive billionaire was in Boston two years ago, and his name at that time had been briefly linked to Cattleya Marchetti, who at that time was not yet married to Ezio Marchetti.
LORENZO STOOD WITH his back to Gloom when the sound of his landline ringing traveled from the open windows of his second-floor office and all the way down to the courtyard.
"Are you done yet?"
He turned to face his dog, and Gloom barked 'yes'.
He spared a gaze at Gloom's handiwork, but the retired bomb-sniffing German shepherd had not done a good job at burying his poop.
"Teo will not be happy about this."
But Gloom was already running around his legs without a care for the world.
To heck with Teo, in other words.
His phone continued to ring as Lorenzo made his way back inside the palazzo. The property was over a hundred years old, and in such a state of disrepair that it had already been condemned and scheduled for demolishment when Lorenzo had stepped in.
People had thought him crazy for buying such a place. But after five costly years of restoration, the palazzo had regained its former glory, and its value was now ten times more than its original assessment.