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)
A place of honor and visibility.
No one has ever invited me to sit in this spot before.
“Sit, micina,” Matteo instructs sternly, and I sense the pressure of every eye in the room and the strange, unfamiliar warmth of being included.
I lower myself into the seat. For the first time ever, I forget the etiquette that my upbringing instilled in me.
I am unsure where to place my hands.
Or my thoughts.
Or myself.
Matteo catches my eye from across the table.
“Eat,” he says quietly, nudging a plate a maid recently placed down toward me. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”
At the head of the table, beside a child who smiles as if the cruelty of the underworld will never harm her, surrounded by people who look at each other with something oddly similar to love, I stupidly believe him.
Chapter 11
Matteo
Breakfast lasts longer than I expected.
A lot longer.
I thought Azra would sit stiffly, barely speak, and glare at everyone the way she glares at me when I piss her off. Instead, she settles in effortlessly, as if she’s had a seat at the table for years instead of minutes.
Even Camille warms to her.
That confession shocks me the most.
Up until last week, Camille hadn’t spoken a word in six months. Not since she arrived on our doorstep on the hip of her “mother.”
Don’t burn Lucia at the stake just yet. She wasn’t lying when she said their story was long. Azra heard some of it during breakfast, but it will take months to fully unravel the web of betrayal that Dante, Lucia, and Camille faced just one week ago.
Yet Camille sits beside Azra as if everything she knew wasn’t turned upside down only days ago, showing her drawing with a shy pride I haven’t seen in a long time. Azra doesn’t treat her like she’s a fragile toy that might break at the slightest provocation. She treats her as if she’s capable. Like she’s normal.
She even shows Camille how to make the metal pole the kid insists on drawing in every picture appear real. She adds shine with an array of different light-colored pencils and blends the edges.
Camille’s mouth gapes as if she’s witnessing magic.
Maybe she is.
I feel like I’m stuck in a fantasy, so a kid who still believes in fairy tales doesn’t stand a chance.
By the time we stand to leave, the staff has cleared the buffet table, and Camille is fighting not to cry. Dante tries not to notice her tears, but the twitching of his jaw is extremely telling.
Azra says goodbye to everyone, as if mornings like this won’t happen again.
I don’t like how that sits in my chest, but I push aside my unease when her farewell occurs without the usual taunting I bring to each gathering. None of my brothers pretend to feel her up when she hugs them, and her legs remain hump-free.
For a second, it has me reconsidering my stance on how I farewell Valentina and Lucia, but can I really call myself the dreaded middle child if I don’t rub my schlong along my future sisters-in-law’s legs?
With Giovanni reaching for his gun and Dante on the verge of a coronary, I scoop Azra’s hand in mine and lead her to the main entrance so she can put on her shoes. “Come on. Slutty dresses aren’t going to buy themselves.”
Once her pink-painted toenails are covered, I direct her toward the garage instead of the SUVs lined up out front.
Azra stiffens. “Why are we going this way?”
Maintaining my lengthy strides, I answer, “We’re taking my motorcycle to town.”
When she halts, my hand slips from her back. “No. Absolutely not.”
Needing to hide the pulse fluttering in my neck from her angry stare, I clutch her wrist and drag her down the gravel driveway. “It’s faster.”
“I don’t care if it’s faster. I’d rather walk.”
“It’s a forty-minute walk to town.”
“Perfect. Great. I love walking.”
Still striding forward, I crank my neck to face her. “Those shoes weren’t designed for hiking.” They’re only suitable for scratching my back while your thighs hug my ears.
“I don’t care.” After maneuvering free from my grip, she folds her arms under her fantastic tits, worsening my already deviant thoughts. “I’m not getting on that death trap.”
“It’s not a death trap.”
“It has two wheels.”
“That’s how bikes work.”
“It doesn’t have any doors.”
“You don’t need doors.”
“It doesn’t have a roof.”
“You don’t need a roof either.”
“It doesn’t have—”
“Azra,” I cut in, “you’re getting on my fucking bike whether you like it or not.”
While struggling to choose between stabbing me and then running or just running, she narrows her eyes at me.
I don’t give her the chance to choose either option.
After fetching a helmet off a shelf in the garage, I lower it over her sultry dark locks, hopeful the visor will stop her from seeing how hard her fury makes me.
I’ve never been more aroused.