Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Chapter
Eight
Angelo
* * *
“I’m not avoiding her,” I tell Heidi who corners me in the kitchen after dinner.
It’s true. I’m not avoiding my wife. I’m simply delaying facing her until I’ve decided how to deal with this new situation.
Heidi dumps a pot in the sink. “Sophie misses her. She misses Sophie too.” Turning, she leans on the counter. “She asked about you, you know.”
“Did she now?” I doubt that very much. I switch on the espresso machine. “What did she want to know?”
“She didn’t ask directly, per se, but she wanted to know.”
That’s what I thought.
“You’ve always been stubborn,” she says. “Just like your father. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”
I chuck a lump of sugar in a cup. “Too late for what?”
“For making amends.”
I push the green button, cutting her blabbering off with the noise. She doesn’t say more when I carry my coffee from the kitchen. I glance upstairs to where the children are sleeping. The worry refuses to settle. I’m not concerned about the boys. At least not much. They’re progressing. Surprisingly well, actually. It’s Sophie who’s regressing. I don’t want to send her to the boarding school, but if things carry on like this, I won’t have a choice.
I shut myself in my study and sink down in my chair. These last few days have been taxing. I rub the muscles in my neck where a permanent tension has settled. I never realized children could be such hard work, not that I’d exchange my nephews and niece for anything. Thank fuck I have Heidi. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. That’s why I’m being soft on her, letting her put her nose in matters that don’t concern her. It doesn’t help that I’m running on four hours of sleep a night, trying to keep my business safe. Because there’s more at stake now. Children. A baby, perhaps. Not if Sabella has her way, it seems.
That she doesn’t want to have my children bothers me more than I care to admit. Can I blame her? Yet I’m anxious to put this plan into action so that I can tie her to me irrevocably and finally get some damn rest. She’ll move back here when she’s pregnant. I already instructed Heidi to keep the bedroom ready without telling her why. I’m not taking chances with Sabella’s health. I started interviewing midwives. I’ll employ one to live with us for the duration of the pregnancy. I also secured the most reputable ob-gyn in the country and determined which private clinic is the best. Except for spending hours poring over online articles about pregnancy and birth, I also studied the five books I ordered from front to back. Yeah. The prospect of letting my wife push out that baby scares me, but the midwife I spoke to reminded me that millions of women who gave birth are still alive.
Yet there’s always a chance of complications.
I push the thought aside. It makes me too anxious. Too restless. Too damn petrified, and I never feared anything in my life. I don’t even want to start on security. My wife and children will have my top men for protection. I’ll never take them anywhere without a convoy of guards and an arsenal of weapons.
The resolution calms me somewhat. It soothes me enough to drink my coffee so that the caffeine can keep me awake. I should focus on the numbers in front of me. Investments. Stock exchange. I’ll need several cups to stay alert. Instead, I reach for the Scotch. I haven’t touched that bottle in a long time. Tonight, I need the alcohol to numb the concern and the uncertainties churning in my gut.
By midnight, I’ve had one glass too many. I know it. I know I shouldn’t be driving as I stand and pull on my jacket. I know I’m making a mistake when I walk outside and get into my car, but I can’t stop myself. I tell myself I’m only going there because I have to get her pregnant and I’ve been slacking in that particular husbandly duty, but the truth is that I need her.
The windows of the new house are dark. I park and let myself in with my key. The noise of my car must’ve woken Sabella, because she walks onto the landing, tying a robe around her waist as I lock the door behind me.
Her tone is cold. “What are you doing here?”
Her animosity gets my hackles up. In turn, my tone is hard. “It’s my house, isn’t it?”
“It’s late.”
“I was working.” It’s a lie. I haven’t focused on work for the last two hours. I stalk up the stairs. “Shouldn’t you be on your knees?”
“I tried that.” She doesn’t retreat, not even when I stop so close to her that she has to crane her neck to look at me. “It didn’t work.”