Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
His name is Marcus Ravelli, and he’s very, very Italian. Utterly wicked, absolutely arrogant, and smoldering hot. He’s one of my brother’s closest friends, and we met one unforgettable summer, when he was eighteen, and I was nineteen.
I’ve never forgotten him, and when we meet again, sparks start flying like ten years haven’t gone by. I want him more than ever, and so when he asks me to marry him, I say yes…only to have him break my heart in the most cruel way there is.
I want a divorce, but my Italian billionaire husband offers me a deal instead…
Note: This is the single-title version of My Italian Billionaire Pt. 1 and 2.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Part One
Prologue
Marcus
The team of lawyers facing Marcus Ravelli did their best not to quake at the sight of his fury, all of them valiantly reminding themselves that they were full-fledged adults and considered the most accomplished in their industry.
But none of it did any good. The moment the high-powered CEO’s cold gaze settled on them, everyone jerked to attention.
Although Marcus Ravelli was relatively younger than most tycoons at twenty-six, his age was made inconsequential by the ease in which he wielded his power, accorded to him by the billion-dollar fortune that he had skillfully managed ever since graduating from college.
“Well then...”
The lawyers started perspiring upon hearing the strong accent that underlined their client’s words. It was a well-known fact that Marcus Ravelli had been educated in Europe’s best international schools from since he was a child. His command of English as well as other major languages in the continent was superb, and the only time his Italian accent became a little more pronounced than usual—-
“Are you telling me that none of you can do anything to circumvent this?”
—-was when his displeasure was of an unfortunate magnitude.
“Anything at all?”
The words, grated out in an undertone laced with fury, had everyone flinching.
When no one spoke, Marcus Ravelli bit out, “Somebody say something or you’re all fired.”
Everyone started talking, excuses and apologies pouring forth as the two teams of lawyers – one based in Italy, the other based in America – rushed to defend their inability to provide worthwhile solutions.
The contract was airtight, said the Italian team. Because Marcus Ravelli’s late grandmother fully owned rights to the business, and her grandson was not being forced to abide by the conditions set in her will, there was no way to nullify it.
Challenging its validity in court could be costly and take years, said the American team. Even worse, management of businesses subject to court disposition might temporarily revert to the government.
“It’s possible,” said one of the American lawyers with a gulp, “that you might lose control of the business—-”
“Enough.”
The other man quickly shut up.
“You’re all dismissed.” Marcus Ravelli didn’t need to say another word, the fifteen or so lawyers bumping into each other as they hurried towards the door, eager to escape the suffocating, nerve-wracking atmosphere inside the conference room.
As silence descended, Marcus swung his seat around, facing the windows, which boasted of an ample view of the city.
Perche, nonna?
Marriage had always been more a curse than a blessing for the Ravellis. His own grandfather had cheated on his grandmother. Marcus’ own father had died in his mistress’ bed, while his mother was now on her fourth marriage, one that was also likely to end in divorce.
Marriage was not for his family, so why would his grandmother force him to marry just to keep control of their estate?
Anneke
NO, IT CAN’T BE. IT just can’t be.
My eyes started to tear up as I browsed the pictures and read the RIP tweets.
But it was.
“Ms. de Konigh?”
I looked up and found the flight attendant gazing at me with obvious worry.
Crap. I quickly switched my phone off to hide photographic evidence of my mourning.
“Is alles goed, mevrouw?” Is everything okay, miss?
“Sorry, yes, everything’s okay.” I forced a smile. It wasn’t her fault that Paul Walker’s death was killing me. “I was just thinking about work.” Not. But of course this was just a reputation-saving lie. As one of the executives in De Konigh Enterprises, there were things that I could and couldn’t do, and shedding actual tears for a celebrity I hadn’t ever met was definitely one of the latter.
Marie’s expression cleared, and she gave me an understanding smile. ““Perhaps a cup of coffee would be helpful, mevrouw?” Her thoughtful gesture and efficiency came as a no surprise. My eldest brother Willem was horribly picky when it came to his staff, and he only hired the best and the smartest.
“A cup would be great. Thank you, Marie.”
The rest of the flight to Florida went by quickly, and soon enough I was once again basking in the delicious warmth of Miami. When I stepped outside the airport, not a single reporter came to bother me, and even now the fact brought a wry smile to my lips. Every little thing a de Konigh did always made headlines in Europe, but it was different here in America. Being wealthy or having the right name wasn’t enough. One had to be gorgeous and interesting, too—-