Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
To my surprise, Bonafanti suddenly smiles, a sly curve to his thin lips that doesn't reach his eyes. He shifts a fraction closer. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with something oily and expectant. A shiver races up my spine, but I stay still, rooted to the spot, my breath catching as I hope against hope for some twist, some sliver of good news buried in Salvatore’s final betrayal.
"I know how devastating you must feel," he murmurs, his eyes flicking over me in a way that makes my stomach turn, lingering on the modest curve of my neckline. It's appraising, hungry, and it sends a wave of nausea through me. "But you have nothing to worry about, Viola. I'd be willing to... help." He pauses, letting the word hang heavy with implication.
“Help how?” I ask, my face the mask of cool composure I've perfected over the years. Inside, resentment burns like wildfire.
“Well, I’d house you in a beautiful apartment… say, a penthouse in Tribeca. You’ll have the best views of the river, and in exchange, you’ll be my... companion." His gaze darkens, bold now. "I wouldn't imprison you like he did. You'd have freedom, Viola. You’ll also have anything money can buy—designer clothes, jewelry, all of that. And you’ll get to travel as often as you like to wherever you want with me. Amalfi Coast… Paris. You'd want for nothing. I'd make sure of it."
Shock freezes me for a beat, my mind blanking out in a white-hot flash of disbelief. His mistress? This sweaty little servant of Salvatore with his wandering gaze and receding hairline? The idea repulses me, turning my stomach sour and making my skin crawl.
"No," I say flatly, the word cutting the air like a knife. "Thank you, but no."
His smile falters, and surprise flickers across his face. I don't wait for the recovery. Before he can respond, stammer some protest, or press further, I turn on my heel and stride toward the waiting limousine with purposeful steps.
The driver holds the door open, and I slide into the cool leather interior, the scent of polished hide enveloping me as the door thunks shut behind me, sealing out the world.
Maria sits across from me, still sniffling into her handkerchief, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. I nod at her, but my focus is inward as I peel off my sunglasses, folding them carefully in my lap. The limo pulls away smoothly, the engine a low purr, and the cemetery gates recede in the rearview mirror, iron bars blurring into the distance.
I stare out the tinted window, the blurred landscape of headstones giving way to the gritty edges of city streets. Try as I might to hold it together, to keep that iron control I've clung to like armor, the tears come unbidden, hot tracks rolling down my cheeks.
He left me with nothing.
Salvatore was worth billions. And yet he left me zilch, not even a freaking crumb.
What now? What do I do now?
Have I no agency at all? Can they really force me to go back to my father's house, like some discarded toy, handed back to the man who sold me in the first place? The thought chokes me, a sob catching in my throat. Fear mingles with the grief I never felt for him—a grief for myself, for the life that's crumbling around me.
All those years... enduring his possessiveness, the way his hands gripped too tight, his touches that left me feeling hollow and used, the endless isolation in that sprawling house where every room felt like a prison cell. All for what? So my father can sell me again?
My hands tremble in my lap. I wipe at my face, but the tears keep coming, silent and relentless.
Chapter Four
RICCI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TiCMc4CW0dc
-Solo Noi-
I watch the sleek black limo gliding away up the cemetery road like a shadow slipping into the gray afternoon light.
It’s quite unbelievable how acutely aware of her I am. Even here, with hordes of people coming forward to murmur congratulations on my new position and curry favor with the freshly crowned Capo, my body has been tuned to her like a live wire. Every cell humming like a bee with it.
Once she leaves, I feel her departure in my bones. Everything has become dull and colorless.
The only thing worth watching at this funeral was her. Discreetly but ceaselessly, I watched her, my eyes tracing her every movement, searching for any crack in that flawless mask, any little clue to what was really going on behind those dark shades. I knew it would be fruitless—she never gives anything away—but I couldn’t stop myself. When her turn came at the grave to throw in her handful of earth, I zeroed in completely.
Her skin looked extraordinarily pale. The deep black of her dress made it look almost translucent, like it had been stretched too thin. She looked almost sickly, fragile in a way that made a protective primal instinct rear up inside me even as a stab of jealousy stabbed me right through the heart. Maybe she was grieving for him in some hidden corner of her heart. Mourning for the bastard.