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)
So it’s real.
The picture is recent and of Dante.
My stomach twists so violently I might be sick. Anger and nausea churn until I can’t pick which is worse. I feel stupid. Exposed.
Was I the prologue of Dante’s steamy date?
I’ve never felt so used, and I dance naked for money.
War rages inside me, but I tuck it away when Camille stirs. This is why I need to remember my place. I’m nothing more than a pawn to the families of the Cosa Nostra. Moving on will be easier now, though I see my anger shifting to hurt when I realize Dante’s actions have stolen the second-best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Camille isn’t my daughter, but I’ve grown closer to Gabriele the more time I spend with her. It’s twisted and sick to cut your teeth on parenting a child who has no relation to you whatsoever, but Camille has also benefited from our time together. I hope.
When Camille’s eyes drift to me, her nose crinkles when she spots the angst my influence in her life has rekindled. I swallow everything down. I fold the newspaper in half, burying both the photo and the jealousy, then jingle the pie to show Camille I got the exact one she suggested.
Her smile isn’t the biggest to date, but I’ll take any she’s willing to give.
We drive home in silence. Dante greets us in the underground garage. He’s all warmth and charm with Camille, but he barely glances at me as he helps carry groceries into the kitchen. The rare times I catch his gaze, he appears nervous, like he’s waiting for me to explode.
As I prepare dinner, he drifts over as he has every night the past week. He props his hip against the counter and chomps through a green bean I recently washed. His arms are casually folded, but the corded veins running through them broadcast his true composure. He’s tense.
“Need any help?”
“It’s fine.” I chop the vegetables with more force than necessary. “I’ve got this.”
“All right.” He wets his lips before straying his eyes to Camille, who is coloring at the dining table. Confident we don’t have any eavesdroppers, he continues his fishing expedition. “Are you okay? You seem a little… quiet.”
Hating that some men can’t own their lies, I fight the urge to drive my knife into his throat. “I’m cooking.”
“And you can’t smile while doing that?”
I shoot my eyes to him, then muster up the fake grin I give all my clients.
That’s clearly what he is, isn’t he?
A client.
That’s what all prostitutes call their johns when they pay for sexual favors.
A beat of silence follows my Harley Quinn smile, and then Dante tries again, but instead of skirting the truth, he edges it. “If this is about last night—”
“Last night?” I query, acting daft. “What happened last night?”
His eyes flicker as he digs through a muddy trench for the worst excuse in the book. “Nothing.”
Nothing? Ouch.
“I’m just saying if I did something to offend you, I’m sorry.” His apology sounds genuine, but I’ve heard many fake apologies in my life. “I’ve had a lot going on lately. My head isn’t screwed on straight.”
My knife pauses mid-slice when I realize I initiated the crossing of the boundaries he’d placed up all week. Rolling my clit while thinking about him isn’t coercion, but not many men are known for thinking with the heads above their shoulders. They prefer to use the one between their legs.
“You didn’t do anything to offend me.”
He mostly kept his hands to himself, so my scorn is my own to bear.
Dante shrugs before scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Okay…” Another stint of silence stretches before he realizes he threw out his line without bait. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“I’m good.”
Unease gurgles deep within me when he fails to see the white flag I’m attempting to wave. “Not just with dinner. With anything.” He scoots closer, drawing his daughter’s focus and spiking my heart rate. “You know you can ask me for anything, right? Tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”
Me? Why am I being put in the spotlight? I wasn’t the one who was inappropriate with a so-called employee, then remembered I had a Tinder date partway through the “act.” I’m glad he took their antics to a hotel, but it still doesn’t feel nice. No one likes being used.
My anger that I allowed myself to get into a situation like this augments into something ugly. It bubbles in my gut and threatens to spill over. Since its overflow won’t solely scald Dante, I untie my apron and slap it on the kitchen counter.
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, slicing through the tension with a lie. “I’m going to lie down.”
I don’t wait for Dante’s reaction. I would rather not see what expression he’s wearing, especially if it is guilt or remorse.