Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
The whole place is like a museum. I’ve never seen so much luxury in one building before. I grew up in a typical Philly rowhome, and I lived in a house not much nicer with Christopher, but this is on an entirely different level. This is generational wealth, like there’s money and power baked into the oil paintings, into the beautiful carpets, into the perfectly painted walls. It smells faintly like lemon cleaner and musty, stale air, but each new twist and turn reveals a new marvel.
We end at the far side of the building down a quiet, abandoned-looking wing. Evander opens a door and steps into a room, and I follow him, my mouth falling open.
It’s like a five-star hotel. Couches and chairs, a fireplace, a massive TV, a stocked bar, and at the far side, French doors opening out onto a balcony overlooking the lake. Sunlight glitters off the water and my jaw somehow finds a new lower level as Evander goes straight for the liquor. He pours himself a whiskey and studies me as I stand there gaping.
“This is my room,” he says, gesturing around us. “The private quarters of the don. My father held this room, and my uncle, and a dozen other Kazan men stretching back generations.”
“It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” I blurt the words out before I can think to stop myself and quickly make a face. “Sorry, I meant, it’s a lot for just one guy, that’s all, I’m just feeling a little—”
He holds up a hand and I gratefully shut my mouth. “I understand. And you’re not wrong, it’s a bit much, but in my world, image is everything.” His smile is tight and tired. He walks to the doors and steps outside, and I follow him. I lean against the doorframe, unwilling to commit myself to stepping onto the concrete, while he leans against the railing and stares out at the water.
“Evander,” I say and his shoulders hunch, the only indication that he’s listening. “I know you’re going out on a limb for me, and you’ve given me a lot these last couple of weeks, and I want you to know how grateful I am for all of it. But why do we have to get married? Why can’t we just, I don’t know—” I gesture in the air. “Pretend to be dating?”
The question hangs in the air. I try not to let my surroundings intimidate me, but this is way bigger than I ever imagined. This is the sort of money and power I only ever read about in books or saw on TV, but never really believed existed. How could anyone live like this, when I know so many people struggling to make ends meet?
Christopher made decent money. We were comfortable—not rich, but I didn’t have to think about the bills. I thought that was the good life, but this place makes my house with my ex-husband look like a shack.
It’s hard to wrap my brain around everything, and I’m struggling to stay grounded.
Only a few hours ago, I thought Evander was a businessman. A rich, powerful, well-connected businessman, but still—not the sort of person that lives in a massive, sprawling, ancient house on lakefront property that must be worth millions.
So much changed so fast, and I’m trying hard to keep up with it all, but it’s like he’s dragging me along kicking and screaming and I’m not getting a chance to catch my breath.
“I have enemies,” he says as last, his words almost lost in the breeze. I take a step toward him and wrap my arms around myself.
“Well, that’s pretty fucking obvious,” I say and catch myself before I can go off more.
He laughs and shakes his head. “That mouth of yours,” he says and looks back at me. “Absolutely filthy.”
I glare at him. “Don’t start.”
He leans back against the railing and sips his whiskey with a sigh. “I have enemies everywhere, Camille. Not only out in the city, but in this house as well.”
“Right, and I’m supposed to be safe here?”
“Safer than out there.” He tilts his head sideways. “My enemies at home are different. When word about you spreads, and it’s going to spread fast now that you’re here, I will have to explain myself. If I tell my family that I stole an Italian Capo’s wife for no reason other than I find the taste of her delicious—”
“You better fucking not say that,” I say, mortified.
“They’d have my head.” He smirks and I want to slap that look off his face. “Which means you need to be more than a mistress. You have to be something serious, something worth the fight. You have to be my wife. That’s the only way you can stay here until we can solve the problem of your ex-husband.”