Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Ten. Thousand. Dollars.
I shuffle back a step from the five-digit number. Ten thousand would jumpstart the thirty thousand I still need. It could win me a precious moment with my child if I play my cards right. But it could also destroy everything.
“No,” I say again. I aim for my voice to sound firm, but it comes out weak.
I hate that Luna can hear the wobble of my indecisiveness.
Her expression shifts, not in pity or judgment, something in between. “Okay. I respect that.” Her smile reveals that she knows this is hard for me. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Her dainty hand waves around the café. “I’m always here.”
“Thanks.”
I grab the pie, pay, and then head for the door. Halfway out, I snag a newspaper from the stand. I tell myself it’s for the classifieds. That I’m being responsible. But the truth is, I’ve been pretending for days.
This isn’t my life. It’s a far cry from wagyu steaks and lobster, but it’s easy to get swept up in the hype of being needed.
When I slide into an SUV idling at the curb, Marco presses a finger to his lips before nodding toward the back seat. Camille is fast asleep. Her head rests against her booster seat, and her breathing is soft snores. She appears peaceful and innocent, like the darkness of her father’s world hasn’t reached her yet.
I’m not surprised. Dante is different from what I expected when I learned his name. Camille is only four, but he not only respects his daughter’s boundaries but also encourages them. He teaches her it’s okay to say no, and that just because he is her elder doesn’t mean he’s always right.
My father taught me the opposite. The only time I was “seen” by him was when it would benefit him. Those times were generally during functions like the one that finally saw me pushing against the restraints.
He paraded me like an object that could be purchased for the right price. When I thought I’d finally broken free of that, I stumbled into the arms of the wrong man.
“Park for a bit,” I whisper to Marco. “Let her sleep.”
He nods before pulling into a quiet alleyway. While he taps the steering wheel in time to the song on the radio, I open the newspaper and browse the classifieds. I’m not really reading. My heart hasn’t been in this search for the past few days.
That’s dangerous to admit. It isn’t my fault. I get attached too fast. I always have. It’s the downfall of growing up in an unloved environment, and the sole reason I turned down Dante’s offer in the first place. I knew I’d fall into this too easily and too deeply.
Guilt prickles under my skin.
Gabriele deserves better than I’m giving him.
Now I flip through the paper faster, hunting for any sign of a new club opening. Dante may have purchased every strip club in the country, but unless he has a crystal ball, new establishments could still be on the table for me.
I slice my finger on the edge of the newspaper when I reach the entertainment section. Papercuts hurt like a bitch, but they’re nothing compared to the pain that shreds my heart when I see a large colored photo in the “around town” section.
The photo is grainy, but no amount of de-pixilation could have me mistaking the back of Dante’s head. Manicured nails are tangled in his hair, and a woman’s mouth is pressed to his. He’s not melting into her embrace, but my heart still stops.
I force myself to stay calm. It could be an old image. It might even be staged. Then I read the headline.
Carlisle’s Reformed Bachelor Back to His Old Tricks!
The date and location of the article are listed under the headline. It was apparently taken last night.
My veins freeze, my fingers numbing around the paper.
“Marco…” Picture a wife scrolling through her cheating husband’s messages after hacking into his phone. Now you have an idea of how possessive my voice is. “Where did you pick up Dante last night?”
He frowns. “I didn’t collect him last night. One of my colleagues did.” When I arch a brow, incapable of accepting such a nonchalant response, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Do you want me to check the logs? We keep records of the comings and goings of all the Caruso hierarchy.” I nod before I can remind myself that I have no claim to this man, so why do I believe I can stomp on his privacy? “One of my colleagues collected him from”—he squints at the report too small for me to see even while seated next to him—“San Therasia Palladium.”
I snap my eyes to the article so fast I have to blink to clear Dante’s hotel name. It is exactly what Marco said.