Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I want to claim her, mark her, and make her mine.
I want everyone to know that precocious, stunning woman bears my last name and took vows of submission and obedience to me.
I want to serve as Don with a mafia princess at my side.
“Ready, bro?” Cristiano asks from the doorway.
“In a minute. Everyone but Cristiano take your positions.”
I don’t miss the way his eyes grow apprehensive when I detain him. He knows I haven’t forgotten his infraction against me.
The door clicks shut behind the last guard. Cristiano shifts nervously on his feet.
“Come here.”
Slowly, like a child about to be scolded, he drags his feet to me. When he’s only a few feet away, I reach my hand to his face. He flinches.
“Listen to me,” I say in a low, warning voice. “The only reason I haven’t fucked you up yet is for the sake of pictures. Memories. So we have those framed prints on the mantle to show what a big fucking happy family we all are.”
His watery eyes widen, but he licks his lips and nods just the same.
“Got it.”
“But if you fuck this up—if you touch my wife, or even talk to her, if you overstep your position or who you are—you’ll answer to me, pictures be damned. You get me?”
He nods. “Of course. You’re the boss,” he replies, unable to hide the disdain and jealousy in his voice. Ahhh. So now we’re getting somewhere.
I nod, because I am. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Another nod. I give what others might think is an affectionate slap to his cheek before we part, but it stings my palm and leaves an angry pink mark on his cheek. “Remember what I’ve said.”
With a nod, he turns from me and discreetly rubs his cheek. “You ready?”
“I’m ready. Let’s go.”
This home that I inherited is on the austere side of things to say the least. Cathedral ceilings inside, with living rooms that feature balconies overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, we have almost double the average water frontage as the average luxury home here with two hundred feet of private beach. It’s kind of showy. That’s the point.
I didn’t want a beach wedding, though. Sand gets fucking everywhere, and it’s so hot under the direct sunlight this time of year it’s like walking through hell. So instead, we’ve set it up so that the vows and following reception will be outdoors near the pool. We have covered verandas, paved patios, and seating galore. My plan is to host the celebration under full coverage from our security cameras, and staff and guests wilting under the heat can cool off indoors or in the pool.
I look out the plate glass windows. Tables are set up, decorated with white tablecloths, green vines, and boughs of white flowers. The elegant strings of a violin play in the background, and the soft murmurs of staff serving hors d'oeuvres blend with the music.
We put on a good show when we want to. That’s what this is all about, I tell myself. Show. There’s no love lost between me and my future wife and never will be. The best I can hope for is that we can tolerate each other. Hot sex might season the deal.
One of my men opens the double doors that lead to the paved patio in the back. To my far right, I see a cluster of women dressed in elegant dresses, a flash of white behind them. Marialena’s there, then, with her staff.
The women are at ease, talking and laughing freely, like old friends. How has she done that already? She only came here last night and passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow.
I hear Marialena’s voice, then a peal of laughter from one of the younger women of her staff.
“Shh,” one of them hushes her. “It’s a somber time!”
This makes them all lapse into laughter. Someone whispers something to Marialena, and her delicate laugh joins theirs.
Of course. She’s here for less than twenty-four hours, and she’s already managed to beguile my staff.
I feel my own lips turn down in a scowl. They’d better fucking respect her.
Cristiano walks ahead of me, and one of the staff catches his eye. As if someone shut the lights out, their faces sober. No one laughs any more. They stand stock-still as if expecting me to berate them for poor behavior or to make an example of one of them for not taking their roles seriously.
Someone claps me on the back, but by the time I turn around, they’re gone. This is why I fucking hate crowds.
“Let’s get this started,” I mutter to Cristiano.
“We’re doing the best we can,” he responds. “But we have to wait—”
I snap my fingers to Giuseppe. “Yeah, boss?”
“I want to get this over with. Now.”
“You got it.” He speaks into a walkie-talkie, gestures ahead of himself, then turns and smiles to me before he raises his hand, and a trumpet begins to play.