Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
The sole reason I arrived in Sicily was to marry Antonio Adami. However, he dumped me two weeks before our wedding.
I could have accepted his decision with dignity, but doing so would have jeopardized plans four years in the making, so I took the advice of a virtual stranger instead.
Matteo Caruso, notorious playboy, enforcer, and severe commitment phobe, wouldn’t know the first thing about relationships. Yet I clung to his word as gospel when a fiery kiss validated his theory.
Men want what they can’t have, and as soon as Matteo’s attention turned to me, my ex-fiancé’s interest became evident.
Antonio idolizes Matteo.
Antonio envies Matteo.
Antonio wants what Matteo has.
And now, apparently, that’s me.
With Antonio’s name scratched out on a marriage contract worth millions, and the Caruso reputation of being men of their word on the line, it’ll only be a matter of days before Antonio comes crawling back.
I just need to survive Matteo’s unexpected wit, charm, and devilishly wicked good looks to slide to the home plate of revenge.
It should be a walk in the park since the devil is easily distinguishable. Except this devil wears protectiveness like armor, and only heartless fools argue that protection isn’t the ultimate act of love
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Matteo
The Adami estate is too pristine to profit from the filth I’m here to confront. Marble floors that have never encountered dirt, and air that carries a faint aroma of expensive cigars, greet us as we are shown through the regal grounds. Every man we pass smirks with the confidence of someone who believes a noble bloodline justifies everything.
I’m here to teach them otherwise.
My younger brothers, Nico and Elio, walk beside me with the same stiff posture keeping my spine rigid. It’s the stance of a man trying real fucking hard not to break something.
Don Adami greets us with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his arms spread wide as if he’s welcoming honored guests instead of the family whose soon-to-be sister-in-law was nearly gang-raped at an event this chapter of the Cosa Nostra hosted.
I’ve seen a lot of bad shit in my thirty-three years, but nothing compared to the terror on Dante’s face when he walked into a room to find Lucia held down by ten thugs. Her barely there bra and panties clung to her battered body by a thread, and blood trickled from her nose.
Giovanni, the don of our chapter and the eldest of the five Caruso brothers, took out the main culprit with a direct headshot. She was lucky. Death by a bullet wasn’t a sufferable enough punishment for Dante. He wanted the men holding his woman to the ground to feel the pain he felt when her screams for them to stop ripped through his ears.
A blade from one ear to the other barely scratched the surface of the adrenaline surging through his veins, but the men shackling Lucia’s ankles and wrists to the seedy, pre-cum-stained floor gurgled on their last breaths for at least a minute. Then every male member of their families endured the remainder of the brunt only hours later.
Now we’re about to take out the rest of the trash.
“Matteo, Nico, Elio.” Don Adami’s lungs saw in and out as he names us in order of our place in the family. If Giovanni and Dante were here, he would have greeted them first. It’s meant to be a sign of respect, but all I see is a cowardly man on the verge of dropping to his knees and begging to suck my dick. “Please sit. Make yourselves comfortable.”
He gestures toward an arrangement of leather chairs that look so uncomfortable I’m convinced they’re solely for show. They’re like overfilled silicone tits. Pleasing to look at, but uncomfortable as fuck when you attempt to use them for their intended purpose.
A servant appears instantly, as if summoned by the Don’s breath alone, carrying a tray of crystal glasses and a decanter of amber liquor that no doubt costs more than most people’s first car.
“Drink?” The don lifts the decanter with a flourish that betrays his age. He’s getting on in years, and it shows in the fragility with which he serves his whiskey and rules his empire. “Aged twenty-one years. A favorite of mine.” No, he isn’t solely referring to the whiskey. His mistresses are barely legal. It’s the “barely” part of my statement that has kept him breathing.
I don’t sit, I don’t drink, and I definitely don’t fucking pretend.
“We’re not here to share bedtime stories.” My deep timbre cuts through the fake hospitality like a blade. “It’s never about niceties when I’m sent to clean up the mess of others.”
I’m the enforcer of my family. The muscle. If I show up at your door, you should be quivering in your boots.
Don Adami’s smile falters, but he sets the decanter down with exaggerated care, as if the gesture alone will smooth over the insinuation that I’m here for carnage.
I close the distance between us. My steps aren’t threatening. They just clarify that I’m not here to be placated.
“Your sons—”
Lifting a hand, he immediately cuts the apron strings. “Acted without my knowledge.” His reply is smooth and practiced, the kind he’s convinced will free him from being slaughtered by the wolves about to maul his offspring. “But now that I am aware, their behavior will be handled in-house. You have my word that they’ll face appropriate repercussions for their actions.”
His promise is worthless.
“A slap on the wrist isn’t harsh enough.” Each of my words carries the weight of the fury I’ve been holding back since Lucia’s almost gang rape. “Your sons crossed a line I cannot ignore, and you don’t get to sweep that under a rug because it’s convenient.” I air-quote my last word like a man with a corn kernel for a dick.
The silence stretches as I watch him squirm. I’ve always had a fascination with the scent of fear, and today it’s especially strong.
The chandelier above us casts broken light across Don Adami’s wrinkled face, highlighting the sheen of sweat forming at his temples.