Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“I would’ve had staff unpack for you when we arrived, but you were so tired. And to answer your question, no. The Regazza family’s relocated to Lombardo.”
“Why?”
“They wanted distance from the Rossis.”
The stark feeling of being utterly alone hits me again. My family’s left me to keep distance from the Rossis, yet I’m as entrenched with them as possible. I have no siblings, my father’s dead and my mother’s long gone, but I did have aunts and uncles and cousins. Some of them meant something to me.
“You have a new family now, Elise.” There’s an edge to his voice that challenges me to defy him, to push against his absolute ownership of who I am.
I do have a new family now. I don’t know how I feel about that.
I don’t hate them. I don’t think I do, anyway. Angelina, my very best friend in the world, will be my sister-in-law, the man she loves, my brother-in-law. I like Vittoria, Romeo’s wife, and Tavi’s sisters. His mother is aloof, but there’s a certain strength to her I can’t help but admire. I know the other women adore her, but I don’t yet know why. I’m willing to find out.
And who doesn’t love portly, jovial, rosy-cheeked Nonna, with her wiseass cracks and broken English and incessant need to feed and nourish her brood. She’s the only woman the men defer to. Even Tosca doesn’t have the sway she does.
I never had the benefit of close companionship with women like me. I had nannies, and a few friends, but no sisters. When my father took a third mistress, my mother asked for a place of her own. On his insistence, she stayed married to him, but it’s only a formality.
The Rossi family’s different, though. Ruthless. Cruel, even. But they have something my family never had—the unbreakable bonds of family. They’re ride or die like no one I’ve ever met, for better or for worse.
I push the suitcase toward him and don’t respond. When he leans forward on the bed casually, his scent lingers like bottled sex. I’d bet money he buys his scent from Italy. Only Italian cologne could make a woman forfeit her panties, though the French are close contenders.
A girl could fall for a guy like him just by the way he smells.
I wonder what he’s up to.
“Open it up, and lay it all out.” His fingers lace together like he’s praying, but if he believes in God, I doubt they’re on good terms.
Obediently, I do what he says. I don’t remember what I packed, but he tossed a few things in here. I open the luxury case, revealing neat, pretty clothes, folded almost into little packets. I pull out a few pairs of jeans, some short-sleeved tops, some undergarments. On the right, I remove my flat iron and a bag of makeup, some flats, low-heeled boots, and silver sandals with a thick wedge heel. No workout clothes or bras. No sneakers. Dammit.
“I’ll need sneakers and a sports bra when you get the workout gear,” I tell him.
His eyes meet mine, sardonic and a little cruel. “Do that hot yoga thing. I hear you can do it naked.”
That he dismisses something that’s important to me pisses me off.
“Fine,” I snap. I reach for the hem of the T-shirt and go to yank it off when he grabs my wrist. My pulse heats, remembering how he pinned me against the wall in the hallway. Remembering the punishment he administered only hours before.
“From now on, I’ll be the one to undress you.”
I place my hands on my hips. “Fine.” Seems my vocabulary’s taken a nosedive.
A part of me wants to ruffle him, wants to stoke that anger in his eyes until he ignites, because only then do I have control over him. But he’s not that easily provoked. Maybe it’s because he dwells daily in a simmering temper, or he’s learned to only let his temper flare when it behooves him. He only smirks at me, reaches for me, and yanks me between his legs.
Standing before him like this, I feel like a little girl dressed in borrowed clothing. With one quick tug of the fabric, he eviscerates that feeling. Standing before him naked, there isn’t a trace of me that feels like a child. Every inch of me feels all woman, from the messy bun at the nape of my neck to my toenails painted hot pink.
“You’re beautiful, even when you’re angry.”
I huff out a breath, but only to hide the way I inhale sharply when his thumbs graze my nipples. “You bring out the best in me.” My words are tight, nearly swallowed with a gasp. He stares, mesmerized, as he traces the blunt edge of one finger across the valley between my breasts, under the low swell, then back again, before he angles it downward and swirls across my bellybutton.