Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
"Why do you even worry?" she chided in answer. "Do you not remember who you're talking to?"
His shoulders relaxed, the tension visibly easing from his frame. "She believed you then."
"Certo." Of course. "And now that I have done my part, be sure to keep your end of the bargain. I granted you this favor because I did see its merits...even if she is not the bride I had in mind for you."
"Grazie, nonna."
Potenziana snorted. "We both know you would have insisted on your way if I had tried putting my foot down."
"You must have me confused with my younger brothers," her grandson drawled. "Am I not known as your most dutiful heir?"
"Save those lies for the idiots of this world," she retorted. "You got what you wanted. And now, it's my turn. I expect you to fully support my every choice when it comes to your brothers and Gazelle."
"You have my word."
"Then we have nothing else to talk about." She gestured to the door. "Go and rest," she ordered gruffly. "You've had a long day."
"We all did." Giancarlo pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Buona notte, nonna. E grazie. Per tutto." Good night. And thank you. For everything.
Potenziana watched the door close behind her grandson. A part of her was still uneasy and quite tempted to take her word back. Sarica was not her first choice of bride for Giancarlo—-and would never be so. But because Giancarlo had never asked her for anything except this—-
She had not been able to help it.
Even though she could not understand his reason, and she had warned him repeatedly that Esteban was as traitorous as they came—-
He had made his intentions clear, and so in the end, she had given him her blessing.
This was the only time Giancarlo had asked something for himself.
How could she say anything else but 'yes' when he told her he wanted fifteen-year-old Sarica Nuñez as his future bride?
Safe
IT'S ALMOST ONE IN the morning when I hear footsteps outside my bedroom. I know it can only be one person, and I don't even wait for someone to knock.
I throw the door open and find myself at eye level with a man's ridiculously broad chest.
Tall.
"Hello, Sarica."
The sound of his voice is a lot gentler than I expected.
Familiar, too.
And that's when it hits me.
Sei al sicuro.
The voice that I thought I had only imagined.
That was him.
I finally muster the courage to look up and find myself already the object of his gaze.
You can't exist in our world and not know what Giancarlo Marchetti looks like. He's strikingly attractive but in a way that's not villainous. His presence is commanding, but he doesn't have the same dangerous aura that other powerful mafia billionaires exude.
I guess that's why most people in our world either love him or hate him. You just don't know where one stands with him, and—-oh!
Something catches my eye, and my tactlessness strikes again.
"You have silver hair!"
The words are out before I even realize what I'm saying.
Shit!
I'm already rearing back and expecting the worst. A backhanded slap is my father's favorite way of instilling "discipline", and that's when he's being nice. Other times, he'd shove me to the floor and kick me—-
Oh.
Is that it?
Really?
I blink.
And then I blink again and again.
But nothing else happens.
Giancarlo Marchetti's lips have simply twitched, and now he's answering me in the mildest of tones.
"Yes, I do."
How fucking...weird.
"Francisco says you wanted to speak with me?"
My chin goes up even though I'm not sure what I'm feeling defensive for. "Am I not allowed to?"
"Is that what you wish to speak to me about?"
"If it is?"
"Is it?"
I've never had someone verbally spar with me so smoothly like this, and I suddenly feel like this man will always be one step ahead of me.
"I believe my grandmother has spoken to you earlier, sì? I know it's a lot to take in, and I'm sorry for that."
His words make me sound like I'm as fragile as glass, and I hate him - and myself - for it.
"Don't you fucking pity me."
"I'm not—-"
"Then why?"
Shame eats me alive when I hear the way my voice trembles.
Fuck.
He's right, after all.
I'm fragile and breakable like glass right now, and I'm scared, dammit.
I'm fucking terrified that all it would take is one word.
Just one damn word, and I'd shatter.
For good.
So, why dammit?
"W-Why did you help me?"
"Because you needed help."
A crazed laugh escapes me. "So you did pity—-"
"It would have been simpler if I did."
A "bad" childhood has always been my license to be snarky and act like I'm way older and wiser than my years. But the moment I hear him speak, there's just something about his tone that makes my pain suddenly feel...negligible.
"I needed to help you, Sarica. I know it's hard to understand, and maybe one day I'll be able to explain it to you...but just know that it was not pity that made me help you. I needed to do it, and I would not have minded if I had to die trying."