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)
He looks ready to tear the world apart.
It would be dishonest if I said I wasn’t one step behind him when the ruckus forces me to pull away from Azra long before I’ve had my fill.
As I inch back, Azra’s pulse races beneath her skin, and then slowly, torturously so, her eyes flutter open.
“See?” I whisper, incapable of reading the room when swamped by emotions I’ve never encountered. “Now he wants you.”
Azra stares at me like she’s struggling to decide whether to slap me or kiss me again.
Either way, I’m fucked.
That kiss… her kiss… fuck.
Chapter 3
Azra
Idon’t breathe for a full minute after the stranger pulls away from me. I can’t. My lungs have forgotten how to work, and my thoughts are scattered like startled birds at a gun range. All I can do is stare at the man with dark, stormy eyes and a mouth that shouldn’t feel as gentle as it does.
My lips tingle and my body shakes as if someone jolted me awake after I spent years pretending to sleep. I’ve been kissed before—by Antonio and men my father approved of when testing the waters of an arranged marriage—but none of them ever kissed me like the stranger just did. None of them staked a claim without first demanding ownership, nor did they offer something without expecting immediate obedience.
The latter terrifies me the most.
I know who this stranger is. Matteo Caruso is the enforcer for the Caruso family. He’s whispered about in the same breath as violence, loyalty, and danger. A notorious bad boy with a reputation for breaking bones and rules.
He has absolutely no character for understanding anything resembling emotional responsibility. Men like him don’t show tenderness. They don’t display softness. They take what they want and offer no mercy.
But today, he did.
Today, he proved his critics wrong.
Matteo was right.
Antonio wants what he can’t have.
And now, apparently, that’s me.
Matteo’s kiss turned my plans upside down, but I’m too captivated by it to figure out how to organize the scrambled pieces to my advantage.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach as I try to remember why I am here. I didn’t come to Sicily to fall into the arms of a stranger, nor do I want to be rescued. I came here for one reason and one reason only: to marry Antonio Adami.
I’m not supposed to be breathless and flustered. And I am most definitely not supposed to be looking at Matteo like he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
I need to be strategic and calculating.
This is about more than just surviving.
My whole life depends on this coupling.
So, with my head held high and my spine straight, I grab Matteo’s hand and rush to the SUV he was guiding me toward only minutes ago.
Instead of pulling back as expected, Matteo’s fingers tighten instinctively around mine. His grip is warm and solid, and for a moment, something dangerously close to safety blisters through me.
I shove that thought away before it can take root.
“Come on,” I mutter as I gallop down the back stairs of the Adami mansion.
Matteo doesn’t resist. He lets me lead him away from the armed Adami men staring at us, from Antonio’s furious, betrayed gaze, and from Don Adami’s stunned silence, which is more unsettling than the quiet he displayed when he lost his finger for disloyalty to the Caruso family.
He ought to consider himself lucky.
In the Turkish mafia, disloyalty like that could get you killed.
I lead Matteo toward a blacked-out SUV near the back stairs, keeping the neutral and serene expression I learned to wear since childhood, even though everything inside me is chaotic.
If it weren’t for Matteo’s large hand steadying me, I’d be a mess.
I shouldn’t notice that.
I shouldn’t care.
You’re not in Sicily for him, I remind myself again.
As we pass through the tall walls of the compound, cold air hits me like a slap. Its briskness clears my head enough to remember the plan I’m supposed to be following.
I yank Matteo forward with more force than I realized I had, and he stumbles—actually stumbles—into the back seat of the SUV.
The surprise on his face is comical. If I weren’t so worked up, I might have laughed. Instead, I climb in after him and slam the door shut.
The moment the latch clicks, the outside world vanishes, and the tension from all the gawkers fades away. It’s just the two of us in the dim interior, the air thick with adrenaline and something else I would rather not name.
Matteo opens his mouth, probably to say something infuriatingly calm or annoyingly perceptive like he did during our debate in my room, but I don’t let him.
Continuing the ruse, I straddle his lap, grab the front of his shirt, tug him forward, and kiss him hard on the mouth.
It’s not a gentle or questioning embrace. It isn’t even hesitant. It’s a collision of anger, confusion, strategy, and if I were honest, a desire I refuse to admit out loud.