Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 745(@200wpm)___ 596(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 745(@200wpm)___ 596(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his stupidity. “Sorry to disappoint, but I got the special interests and big emotions kind of autism, not the savant fantasy version. I guess the brochure didn’t cover that.”
Rafe snorts, and Riccardo looks like he’s ready to spit flames. Those are usually the type of thoughts I keep inside my head, but it spilled out before I could really think of the consequences. For once, I don’t regret it. He’s an asshole.
“Fine,” Riccardo grits out. “You can just stand here and look pretty while you pretend you understand what I’m talking about. You’ll have to get used to it, since you’ll be my wife.”
He emphasizes that last part like he’s staking a claim on me. Rafe clenches his jaw, and I’m fairly certain he wants to punch his lights out.
“I’d say Gabi is already well-practiced at the art of pretending. She seems to tolerate you, doesn’t she?”
Rafe says it like it’s a joke, but it’s definitely not. And Riccardo is definitely not laughing.
“Very funny,” Riccardo snaps. “But I think Gabi knows how lucky she is to be engaged to a high-value man.”
I groan inwardly as I imagine him sitting at home, listening to incel podcasts. Now, he’s putting me in a position where he wants me to agree with him out loud—like that means anything. If Michael were here, I probably would have managed to force the words out, but right now, I can’t seem to get my mouth to cooperate. My hesitation only pisses him off even more.
Thankfully, Rafe distracts him by pointing at his ear. “They run out of picture books at the tattoo parlor, or did you lose a bet?”
“What are you talking about?” Riccardo blanches.
“You have a penis behind your ear.”
“Motherfucker,” Riccardo hisses under his breath. “It was a prank. I’m getting it removed.”
“Hmm.” Rafe scrapes a hand over his jaw, trying to hide his amusement.
His phone vibrates, and he checks out of the conversation momentarily while he taps out a text. That’s when Riccardo chooses to grab my arm, squeezing it as he leans in to hiss in my ear.
“Would it kill you to smile when you see me? You might be hot, but your little quirks are getting annoying. Michael said you had a handle on them.”
I want to tell him Romeo never had a problem with my "quirks," because I know that’s what this is really about. He’s feeling emasculated and disrespected, and now he wants me to publicly acknowledge his superiority and his oh so charitable offer of marrying me.
Luckily, Nonna interrupts the moment and tells us all to sit down so dinner can be served. I breathe a sigh of relief as she directs each of us to our seats, intentionally guiding me to the opposite side of the table to sit across from Riccardo. At least he won’t be able to grope me during dinner.
Even Riccardo knows better than to try to argue with a nonna when he’s a guest at her table. However, that doesn’t stop him from directing his ire at me.
“Do you have to bring that mutt with you to dinner?” He sneers at Beppe.
“He’s her support animal.” Mariella glares at him. “If she wants to bring him to dinner with us, she fucking will.”
“Mariella,” Angelo sighs.
“What?”
“You know how Nonna feels about the word fuck at Sunday dinner.”
“You say it all the time.” She points out. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Madonna Mia.” Nonna throws her hands into the air, reprimanding Mariella about the Lord’s day in a string of rapid-fire Italian.
They all start arguing, and I hear Riccardo mutter something that sounds an awful lot like, not in my house, and I know he’s referring to Beppe. The thought fills my veins with ice, and I know now without a shadow of a doubt I can’t go through with this marriage. But I also don’t know how to get out of it.
“I need another drink,” Riccardo grouses.
Nonna, being the gracious host she is, comes around the table to accommodate him. She picks up his glass and scoops ice from a bucket on the sideboard just as Romeo appears. He and Rafe exchange a look as Romeo sweeps by and dumps something into the glass Nonna is preparing for Riccardo. It’s some kind of clear liquid, and it doesn’t seem to faze Nonna in the slightest as she hands the glass to Riccardo, who’s none the wiser. He reaches for a bottle of whiskey on the table and pours himself half a glass, downing it in a few swallows as if this dinner is testing his last nerve.
His mood doesn’t improve when Nonna directs Romeo to sit in the one empty seat beside me.
He glances between the two of us, drumming his fingers on the table. I’m already at my sensory threshold, and right now that sound may as well be shotgun blasts.