Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 77(@200wpm)___ 62(@250wpm)___ 52(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 77(@200wpm)___ 62(@250wpm)___ 52(@300wpm)
I throw another glance at him. I don’t even know what I’m thinking going along with this. But I was in such a low place there that I couldn’t resist taking him up on the offer when he took my hand, even though I know it’s dangerous.
My mother taught me to be wary of any and all men.
Especially the ones who make too many promises.
But what value do her words have now that she threw me out onto the streets?
“I won’t hurt you,” he says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not,” I lie, glancing over at him once more, even though his killer looks make it so damn hard. But I can’t afford to look weak, despite my obvious low. If there’s anything I know about this world, it’s that people love to take advantage of those in a bad spot.
“If you want to stop the car, you can tell me, and I’ll drop you off. No questions asked,” he adds.
“I’m fine,” I reply, licking my lips. “I just want to know why you would take me with you?”
A coarse, thin smile forms on his face. “Because I saw you hunched over in that alley. Crying.” His fingertips reach for my face, but he stops right before he touches my cheek. “I can’t resist helping occasionally.”
“So you do this often? Take in girls off the streets?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Not often, no. But I have helped people before.”
People. I wonder who.
Judging from the brand of this car, the suit he’s wearing, and the driver in front of us, he’s got loads and loads of cash to dish out. Which means he’s either a businessman or a criminal. Knowing my track record, probably the second.
But can I really say no to help when I have nothing at all and no one else to go to?
“I’ve given you my name, but you still haven’t told me yours,” he says, breaking my train of thought.
“I, uh … Emilia.” I don’t want to give my last name just yet.
Who knows what he intends to do.
Suddenly, my stomach roars, and I rub my hand along my side to stop the noise. But when I turn my head, he’s looking at me with that raised brow and a filthy smirk on his face, and I know he heard.
Goddammit.
“You’re hungry.”
Not a question. A statement.
“I’m f—”
He snaps his finger at his driver. “Take us to Pierre’s.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver responds.
“What’s Pierre’s?” I ask, confused.
“A restaurant,” Vincenzo replies. “One that serves the best dishes this city has to offer.”
Pierre as in … Pierre Faveurre?! The most expensive restaurant in this city?
I swallow. Now I’m sure he’s loaded.
“No, no, wait,” I mutter. “I can’t go there.”
“Why not?” He sounds so calm even though the place he just suggested is so out of reach to people like me, but like it’s the most normal thing in the world to him.
“I-I’m not dress—”
“I’ll get you a dress,” he says, and he grabs my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the top. “Everything’s on me today.”
I’m too flabbergasted to know how to respond.
He snaps his fingers again. “Quick stop at Nalaga first.”
Nalaga? Outfits there cost at least a thousand a piece, if not more.
“Yes, sir,” the driver responds, and he makes a quick turn to the left.
I don’t know what to say, it’s all a bit too much. And within seconds, we’ve already arrived.
The car stops, and Vincenzo steps out, only to open my door for me like a real gentleman. And I don’t know what I did to deserve all this … or if it’s all a trap.
Vincenzo holds out his hand. “C’mon.”
I reluctantly take it and let him guide me into the big, intricately designed building. There’s a red carpet welcoming the customers, along with rows and rows of closets filled with lavish dresses, all carrying cards with dizzying numbers on them.
“Pick any you like,” he says, releasing my hand.
“There are so many …” I mutter.
“Do you want them all?”
My eyes widen. He sounds like he means it. Literally.
“This one looks nice,” I say, and I grab a long purple dress that’s one of the cheaper ones.
He scratches his chin and raises a brow. “You sure, or are you just picking that one because it costs the least?”
I grin and push the blush away. “I like it.”
“Can I help you?” a lady at the front desk asks as she approaches us. She lowers her nose at me in that same way rich people usually do when they spot me. My drenched clothes definitely give away that I don’t belong in a place like this.
Vincenzo steps forward, blocking her from coming to me. “Dressing room.”
The woman swallows and stares him up and down. “And who will be paying for that outfit?”
“I will,” he snarls.