Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
He whipped his head my way, surprised. “You know how to cook?”
“Yes.” I smiled brightly. He was in for a pleasant surprise. I was somewhat of an amateur chef. “I do. And you know how to eat.” As he’d demonstrated throughout our short marriage.
A wolfish grin tugged the corners of his lips. “That I do.”
“Anything specific you have in mind?”
“Never met a good steak I didn’t like.”
“Potatoes?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Broccoli. I haven’t had a starch in five years.”
My expression probably gave away my shock and alarm at that information.
He chuckled, stealing a quick kiss as the vehicle reached the entrance of GS Properties. “I know, Apricity. It’s hard to understand when you are a twenty-six-year-old former athlete and have the metabolism of a hummingbird. But your thirties bring with them a whole new level of maintenance. There’s an entire decade between us.”
I scrunched my nose. “Sometimes I forget I’m shagging an old man.”
He tipped back his head, barking out a delighted laugh and scooping me into his arms in a tsunami of kisses. “Then how about I remind you why it’s worth it.”
After holding meetings with union members all day and tending to my administrative duties, I got off work at four to have adequate time to prepare a romantic dinner. I only had one bodyguard now—Filippo. We got along well, although I kind of missed Enzo’s sunshine energy and funny jokes.
We started out at the farmers’ market, where I purchased flowers and three boneless rib eyes—yes, Filippo needed to eat too—along with some broccoli florets and other greens for a fresh salad.
“So when did you join the Camorra?” I tried to use the time shopping to get to know him better as we strolled side by side. I doubted we’d be spending a lot of time together now that Tate was working diligently to make peace with the Callaghans. “Enzo mentioned you are not a Ferrante by blood.”
The young, brawny man considered his words, weeding through what he wanted to tell me and what he wished to keep to himself. “Yes, we’re not technically blood, but we’re much more than that. Back in Napoli.” He scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing. “My mother was a prostitute, and my father was a drunk. My father used to do some work for Vello in his Ischia summer house, so he knew the don. He sent me off to work for the Ferrantes to pay a debt. I could’ve ended up in a very bad spot, but the family took a liking to me because I was a hard worker, a fast learner. Achilles especially.” He ran his teeth over his lower lip. “They let me live in their shed, not with all their other laborers in the motel they own in Jersey City. In time, they even let me have a place at their dinner table.”
“Achilles doesn’t seem like the type to just dole out friendship,” I noted, striding along the stalls sprouting colorful bouquets of flowers, freshly baked goods, and handmade mittens. We were edging out of the farmers’ market and toward the car park. It was surrounded by low, industrial, red-bricked buildings, with a narrow one-way road leading out to the main street.
“He can be terrible,” Filippo agreed. “But he is always fair.”
“Is he?” I asked doubtfully.
Filippo nodded. “In our world, it is better to be cruel than to be weak. Whatever punishments he gives people, they always deserve it.”
“Did his baby brother deserve having his girlfriend shagged to make a point?” I couldn’t help but snap out. What a load of rubbish.
“This wasn’t a punishment, vita mia. It was a favor.” Filippo frowned, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings, hyperaware we were in a public though secluded place. “And a lesson too. Enzo has a lot to learn about himself.”
I wondered what that meant.
I thought about Filippo’s life. How his choices were taken away from him at such a young age. I wanted to help him if I could.
“Filippo, would you rather—”
The rest of my words were drowned in a sharp, loud noise. Filippo jerked forward suddenly, landing face down on the pavement. Gunpowder scorched my nostrils, so smoky and peppery I could taste it on my tongue. My eyes darted to his crumpled form. Horror quickly flooded through my veins. His raven hair was wet and matted to his skull, and blood gushed from his wound, down the slope of his ear, in a river of deep maroon.
His eye was missing. Either it exploded or rolled off somewhere.
I shrieked, dropping the brown paper bags I held to my chest. I whirled around, my eyes flaring when I spotted Tiernan Callaghan standing about twelve feet from me, a Cheshire Cat smirk on his lips. He was holding a gun with a silencer, spinning the trigger on his index finger. Behind him were three scary-looking men.