Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The Caruso family is legendary in Sicily. They’re powerful, untouchable, and rumored to have their hands in everything from imports to politics.
I won’t mention the things better left unspoken.
Someone perpetually late and as styleless as she is poor should be an unlikely match for the Don of the Cosa Nostra.
Not only do I get a second glance, I’m also tossed headfirst into a scandal so salacious it’s front-page news.
Since I refuse to rehash my mother’s mistakes, I try to ignore the tension hot enough to burn, but obsession is a brutal game, and Giovanni Caruso never loses.
Giovanni:
Attachments are dangerous.
They make you hesitant.
They make you weak.
And yet, when a fresh face in our great country steps in danger’s path, I respond without considering how my gallantry will favor my family or myself.
For thirty-four years, I discredited my father’s claim that he knew my mother was “it” after only seeing her once.
The instant Valentina Raimondi peered up at me, I understood.
My fixation with the curvaceous beauty is immediate and borderline psychotic, and although obsession is a dangerous thing, I can’t suspend our thrilling game of chase.
Valentina is mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who tries to convince her otherwise… including the woman I’m contracted to marry.
Brutal Obsession is a standalone age-gap mafia romance with a curvy heroine, and the man utterly obsessed with her
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
VALENTINA
I’m late. Again.
While I curse the stupid Maps app as if it’s solely to blame for my tardiness, my inexpensive heels batter the uneven cobblestones in the heart of Carlisle. Their stomps mirror the discouraged honks of the early-morning commuters who loathe as much as I do that peak-hour traffic starts well before dawn.
The sun has barely risen, and its low hang creates shadows on historic architecture I’d slow to admire if I weren’t on a time crunch.
Carlisle is a sunburned metropolis on the north coast of Sicily. Nestled between rolling lemon groves and the sparkling blue waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea, it’s the perfect location for rest and recovery.
Well, that’s what I told myself three months ago when I abandoned everything familiar for this country’s promise of solace.
Willing the blue dot on my phone’s screen to magically fix itself, I follow its directions to the wire. An additional thousand steps don’t resolve my issue. The Maps app continuously leads me to a decommissioned council building instead of the hospital I’m seeking.
Carlisle’s labyrinthine streets mock modern technology, but I doubt I’d fare better with paper maps. All the old buildings painted in white, terracotta, and pale-blue hues look exactly the same. I can’t tell a family-run bakery from a gelato store.
Anger reddens my cheeks when my phone notifies me to turn left.
“There is no left! So how the hell am I meant to turn left?”
I’m already strangling my phone, but my clutch firms enough to crack the screen when a message from Dr. Russo’s secretary pops up. If I don’t arrive at Ospedale San Giorgio’s in ten minutes, Dr. Russo’s secretary will postpone our meeting until after Dr. Russo returns from a six-week international conference.
Determined not to let technology sabotage a mission over a year in the making, I quicken my pace. This morning’s meeting isn’t with the local council’s corrupt building inspector. It’s far more important than hiding the cracks of an unsteady foundation so I don’t end up homeless. This could unravel my entire existence.
“Dio mio,” I mutter, glancing at the time.
I wouldn’t be on such a time crunch if I’d left earlier, but my hair loathes extreme humidity, and I didn’t foresee a dead battery. I’m usually the first to arrive…
Actually, scrap that. Tardiness has become my middle name of late. It isn’t my fault. Carbs are cheap, but they also demand weekly wardrobe tweaks. Since laundry day isn’t until tomorrow, I’m down to the bare basics. My blouse is barely holding together. Three buttons are all that stand between disaster and me. My ample cleavage won’t survive a fourth loss.
After regulating my breathing, which I’m praying will reduce the likelihood of being arrested for public indecency, I close the Maps app and scroll through the Photos app. Carlisle is a patchwork of identical buildings and picturesque coastlines, but if any of the business names match those I’ve passed three times this morning, perhaps sometime within the next century, I’ll escape the maze endeavoring to swallow me whole.
I find the image I’m seeking as a horn blasts in the distance. I hardly notice it. I glue my eyes to my phone’s screen, anxious to identify the name of the giant stone wall blocking my path.
I’m in such a hurry that I don’t register the smoothness of the curb compared to the unevenness of the footpath, nor do I hear the truck hurtling down the main road at a reckless speed. My focus is fixed on the universally known hospital icon on the old-school map I snapped a picture of months ago, and relief surges through me when I realize it’s mere blocks away.
I’m oblivious to the danger roaring my way, but thankfully, not everyone’s brain is as sluggish as mine when denied a morning shot of espresso.
A rough, urgent hand snatches my arm and plucks me out of the path of danger with barely a second to spare. My phone slips from my hand, and before I can catch it, I’m flattened against the cool metal of a dark SUV.
The good Samaritan who saved me from a head-on collision with a truck shields me with his body as the speeding motorist thunders past us. Our near miss is so close that the air whistling from the undercarriage of the truck whips my hair back and rattles my core.
That was a close call.
Too close.
For several heart-thrashing seconds, only my pounding pulse and the fading echo of the truck’s horn fill the silence.
Even with imminent disaster gone, the stranger doesn’t release me from his protective cocoon. I don’t mind. My skyrocketing heart rate is settling, but the spasms in the lower half of my body remain steadfast. They make me wonder if they stem from fear or if they’re associated with something I’ve not experienced in a long time.