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)
I snort involuntarily. “So you admit I’m not a spy?”
“I believe I did that once already.”
“I want you to say the words.” I glare at him and try to keep my temper under check. “I want you to admit that I’d never spy for my abusive asshole ex-husband.”
“Don’t push your luck, asteraki mu. I am not in the mood.”
I cross my arms, clutching the phone in my hand. As far as apology gestures go, this one’s pretty decent, but it doesn’t fix everything. “At least say I’m not a spy.”
He steps toward me, his body hard and enormous as he leans closer, his full lips parted and his eyes flashing as they stare into mine. “I know you are not a spy, asteraki mu, because you value your life too much. Now, take this.” He turns and picks up the cardboard box.
“I have to be back to work soon, you know,” I say, eyeing him suspiciously. “And you have your meeting, so—”
“First of all, I never said you could return to the diner.”
“I’m working,” I say through my teeth. “And I don’t care—”
He holds up a hand. “We can discuss that another time.” He steps forward. “Here. This is for you.”
I take the box and tilt my head. It smells bad, faintly like garbage and mold. “Uh. Thanks for the trash box?”
He smiles ever so slightly. “Look inside.”
I place it on an end table and gingerly open the flaps.
Inside is a pair of Nike Air Max IIs. The toe is worn, one side is scuffed and ripped, and there’s a stain in the tongue from when I spilled a glass of wine on them. I pick one up and hold it in both hands and my stomach does a twisting dance of excitement as a thousand memories come rushing back—wearing these the first day I bought them, feeling so special and cool as I walked down my block, a kid at school complimenting them, and much later, wearing them every time I left the house when I was with Christopher as a way to remind myself that I do have some power in my life, and a thousand other little moments. Shoes are just shoes, but these are so much more.
Tears spring into my eyes. I didn’t think I could get so damn emotional about sneakers, but here I am, crying over them again. “I thought you said you threw them away.”
“I did,” he says, returning to his desk. “But fortunately, I have contacts with the sanitation department, and the truck they were on hadn’t been emptied yet. I paid a lot of men a lot of money to dig through a lot of trash until they found those.”
I laugh and shake my head at the absurdity of the image. It sounds too good to be true, but I don’t doubt him one bit based on the smell alone. “You’re crazy.”
“I am not trying to purposefully hurt you, Camille.” He leans both hands down on the top of his desk and looks tired. “I am trying to get you to understand your new role.”
“Which is what? Mob wife?”
“No,” he says with a bitter laugh. “You were already a mob wife once. You will be a crime lord’s wife now, which is much more dangerous. You will sit on top of a throne of blood and money unlike anything you’ve ever imagined, and if you want to stay alive long enough to solve your ex-husband problem, you need to listen to me.”
I slowly sink down into a chair. “You make it sound like there are people waiting in the shadows with knives, ready to stab me in the back for wearing the wrong dress.”
“That’s more or less accurate.”
I laugh sharply, but he’s not smiling. “I’m going to get killed then. You’ve met me, right? Do I seem like the kind of girl that can hold her tongue and say all the right things? I don’t know anything about—” I gesture around me at the wealth and beauty just in this room alone.
He tilts his head, frowning. “No, you don’t.”
“Exactly. I’m the kind of girl that gets herself in trouble. I speak my mind, wear old sneakers, and absolutely hate being told what to do.” I hesitate and glance in the direction of his bedroom. “Although I do like all the pretty dresses.”
His smile is exhausted. “I hoped you might.”
“I’m not going to fit in here,” I say quietly, feeling a sudden weight in my chest. “If you need a woman that understands how to navigate all this, you’re talking to the wrong person.”
He comes around toward me. I stare at him as he stops and slowly kneels down in front of me. My heart starts racing—I know this position all too well—but he doesn’t come closer.
“I will help you,” he says. “You will learn how to please me and how to please my family.” He holds up a hand before I can launch into a tirade about how I couldn’t care less about pleasing him or anyone else. “All you need to do is try to listen. I demand perfection, Camille, but I offer a lot in return.”