Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Nothing.” I stand. “Are you ready to go?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELENA
The following day, I wake with a surreal feeling, waiting for the springy mattress to dig into my side like every day. It’s become a routine, waking to a painful reminder of our poverty. Then, I sink deeper into the thick, luxurious bed. The silk sheets caress my skin. For long moments, I let myself savor it. Then, my conscious mind kicks in, and I remember what this is all about.
Yesterday, after the standoff with Aunt Rosa, Dario was distant during the car ride home. We barely exchanged any words at all except small talk. Back at the apartment, it was like I could feel a tension in the atmosphere between us, the potential for something significant. Something special, even. Not that it matters; it’s not what I’m here for. I need to be careful with that sort of thinking.
Clara knocks on my door. “Excuse me, Miss. Mrs. Moretti would like to speak with you.”
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “When will she get here?”
“She’s already here.”
I quickly shower in the en suite, trying not to let myself laugh like a madwoman at the water pressure, at how I can choose which heat I’d like. We have two options at our place: searing hot and ice cold—kind of like Dario and me.
Maria Moretti is waiting for me in the dining room, a lavish breakfast laid out. She looks glamorous, as though she’s been awake for hours having her makeup and hair professionally done. I feel frumpy in my casual jeans and T-shirt.
She stands, pulling me into a hug that feels distant. She fake kisses my cheek the way rich people do. “Elena, dear girl. Have you slept?”
“I slept fine, thank you,” I reply, pulling out a chair.
She frowns at me, making me feel like I’m under inspection, which, obviously, I am. “I understand your aunt, your only remaining relative, is very sick. I know you’re not officially part of the family yet, but I would like to offer to, shall we say, provide for her medical care, no matter what might transpire?”
I take a moment to pick through her words, and then I get it. She’s saying she wants to pay for Aunt Rosa’s care even if Dario and I don’t marry.
She leans forward, hinting at the Mafia queen she could become at any moment. Her expression is serious. “My son has taken a keen liking to you, of course, and I cannot blame him for that. You’re a charming young lady. I’m merely trying to express that I wouldn’t want you to think your aunt’s care relies on your marriage.”
In fact, it does. That’s the whole point of this deal, but she can’t know that. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Mrs. Moretti,” I say, doing my best to play the high-society game of not just coming out and saying what’s on my mind.
“Your aunt’s care isn’t contingent upon your clear, genuine devotion to my son,” she says with a hint of sarcasm.
She emphasizes genuine, a clear implication that she thinks I’m only doing all this for the money. She undeniably doesn’t know the full extent. She doesn’t know this is all an act.
“I despise money talk, but in this case, it’s necessary,” she says. “I’m perfectly willing to write a check to ensure your aunt doesn’t suffer unduly.”
The table is filled with food and jugs of drinks. My stomach rumbles, but I’m worried about reaching for anything and making the wrong move. Instead, I sit with my hands in my lap, waiting for her to indicate what I must do to remain proper. I am so, so not suited to this world.
“My aunt isn’t currently in need of any additional care,” I say, wondering if my phrasing is sufficiently up-my-own-ass.
“That’s excellent news,” she beams, but her eyes flicker with suspicion. “I assume my son has assisted in this noble endeavor?”
“Your son has been most generous,” I reply, feeling like I’m in some Regency drama.
“Generosity is Dario’s very soul. It doesn’t surprise me that, once learning about the viciousness your family suffered, he would be so selfless in his care and his love. Please, allow me to ask about you.”
“What about me, Mrs. Moretti?”
“Do you love my son?”
I don’t know him. I only met him two days ago. He’s tall, handsome, and so intense that he puts weird ideas and thoughts in my head that I never dreamed would exist when I agreed to this. Yet it doesn’t matter how I truthfully feel. “I love your son more than life itself.”
“Marriage isn’t merely about love, however. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“I’m ready to dedicate myself to him. I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes,” she repeats. “How lovely.”
Yet her tone says the exact opposite. I slipped there, making it sound like I was doing this out of duty, not love, as I just proclaimed. I wonder what would have happened if Dario and I had met under different circumstances. Would sassing him still feel so good?