Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Where did your name come from?” Renzo asked, watching me dip my fries with a shake of his head.
Ketchup is for fries, he’d insisted.
Ketchup is for grilled cheese, I’d countered.
“It’s not a traditional Italian name,” he added.
“No. My brothers all got the traditional names. But my mom insisted on naming me. Lore. Like… traditions or information held by a certain group of people. She told me that girls are the ‘family keepers,’ or the keepers of the family’s ‘lore.’”
“Like with the cooking,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “And a bunch of other little things I remind my brothers of or little traditions we had when she was alive that she learned from her family.”
“Shit you’ll teach our kids?” he asked.
“Yeah, definitely. This place is going to look great with Christmas lights,” I said, glancing around at all the potential. The balconies, especially, could be draped in greenery and lights. The whole place would sparkle.
“Don’t remember the last time I even had a Christmas tree,” he admitted.
“Well, you won’t have too long of a wait. But first, we have to plan Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, we do,” he agreed, seeming to like that word as much as I did.
After dinner, we stripped out of our clothes, fell into bed, and into each other again, making up for lost time.
Before he pulled me onto his chest, holding me like he knew I liked.
It was the longest span of time I’d spent with Renzo since we’d married.
And it was even better than all the fantasies I’d dreamed up.
As I drifted to sleep in his arms, I was sure that nothing could ever ruin what was growing between us.
I would, of course, be proven painfully wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Renzo
I never had a reason before to want to rush home.
But as we questioned the kid for a third day, I could barely keep my mind on the task.
All I could think about was going home, walking through the door, and finding Lore there waiting for me. A new understanding between us.
Shit had changed so quickly.
Just one full night with her, watching how she came out of her shell little by little as we talked, making her more animated and expressive, her words often tripping over each other to rush out.
She especially liked talking about her family, the love there so plain for anyone to see.
“You didn’t hate me because of him?” I’d asked when she’d told me a story about one of her brothers, Cesare, the tattooed, womanizing brother who had a penchant for getting into trouble.
“Hate you? For what?”
“Because I was the reason he had to go into exile for so long.” I’d approved the hit on Cesare after he’d made the epic fucking mistake of sleeping with one of my capo’s wives.
“I’m pretty sure Cesare was to blame for that.”
She was surprisingly good at that. Being neutral, even when she was talking about her loved ones.
I think we have all had undue prejudices against each other just because history told us we should, she’d said, speaking of the war between our families.
All the while she was talking, she was sitting there eating her fucking chicken fingers and fries like it was a goddamn Michelin star meal.
She was just… fucking perfect.
And all I wanted to do was get my ass home to her again.
“Fuck,” Dav hissed, pulling his hand back, cradling it to his chest. We’d all heard the crunch. The hardheaded kid’s face had broken one of his fingers.
“Take a break,” I said, nodding toward the door, knowing the pain would piss him off, and make him go too hard. Which wasn’t going to help anyone.
I waited until he was gone, then stood there looking down at the kid, his face a mess of cuts and bruises, his dark hair sweaty from the pain, his body slouched to the side, trying to favor his ribs that both Dav and I had worked over.
His words came back to me as he glanced up, eyes icy, daring me to hit him again, telling me it wouldn’t fucking work.
Believe me, I’ve had worse.
That was what he’d said.
And, fuck, I could feel those words down to my soul.
No fight I’d ever been in from being a punk-ass kid or a boss ever compared to what I dealt with from my old man.
With a sigh, I moved across the room, grabbing the other metal chair, and dragging it over, turning it to sit on it backward in front of him.
“When I was ten, I knocked into and busted the TV,” I told him, the memory fresh even after all these years. The kid was watching me, face blank. But I went on anyway. “Old man stood up, whipped off his belt, and beat the ever-loving shit out of me. Bad enough that he cut through the material of my pants and shirt. Had welts busted open and bleeding,” I recounted, remembering the way my poor excuse of a mother urged him on. Teach him a lesson. Fucking ungrateful little shit. “I accidentally turned once,” I went on, touching my lip. “Caught the metal of the buckle. Bled like a fucking river.”