Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
The representative from IVI approaches and clears his throat, informing us he’s here to witness the ceremony of Madalena’s baptism.
“We’ll be starting soon,” he says. “Where is the godfather?”
Alessio checks his phone, and I glance at Natalia as it occurs to me I never asked who the godfather was. Before I get a chance, the church doors open, and Alessio looks up.
“There he is.”
We all turn, and before I can brace for impact, my gaze collides with a pair of dark, expressive eyes and a face that’s haunted me for six long years.
The world tilts as my breath catches in my chest and my mind scrambles to make sense of what I’m seeing. I can’t move. I can’t even blink.
This isn’t real. There’s no way he could possibly be standing here right now.
Except, he is.
My eyes drift down the length of his body, drinking in every detail of his muscular frame. There’s no trace of the boy I once grew up with. Prison has carved out any softness that may have existed in him, and he came back built for war.
Over the years, I’ve heard him described as the devil in a suit, and right now, he looks downright sinful. In his all-black ensemble—fitted waistcoat, trousers, and dress shirt left open at the neckline—he looks every bit the fallen angel coming to exact his punishment on this earth. Or more accurately, me.
A shiver moves through me as my eyes settle on his face. On a scale of zero to ten, Angelo Vitale has always been god tier. He’s the brutal kind of handsome most people can’t look directly in the eye because it feels so…intense.
That hasn’t changed.
He still has the same warm, olive complexion and shiny black hair, with that devilish swooping curl that falls over his forehead. His features are commanding in a way that makes you forget your own name. Dark lashes, a smoldering gaze, and a sharp jawline framed by a controlled stubble give him a rough polish.
Beautiful torment.
That’s what he is.
Without consciously being aware of what I’m doing, I stumble from my seat, my heart rate rising too rapidly.
“Angelo?” I choke out his name, desperate to confirm my eyes aren’t deceiving me.
His gaze cuts over me, colder than I’ve ever seen it.
“Hello, Abella,” he answers with an icy smile. “Nice to see you too.”
The room spins as my vision narrows to a pinpoint, and before I can draw another breath, my legs give out from beneath me.
Someone mutters a curse and captures me before I hit the floor. Fog fills my head as it lolls to the side, and when my face rubs against a solid chest, I detect the faintest hint of citrus and cloves. A scent I know for certain…I’m no longer imagining.
6
ANGELO
The church bursts into chaos as I lift the limp body of my traitorous ex-fiancée into my arms. All at once, everyone in the room rushes toward us, but Natalia and Alessio form a blockade in front of me. Hushed voices ripple through the crowd before one person asks if we need a doctor.
Meanwhile, Natalia fusses over Abella, fanning her face with her hands. Beside her, Alessio tosses me a questioning glance—probably wondering why I bothered to catch her at all. Before he can offer such a smart-ass observation, Abella stirs, blinking several times as she glances around in confusion.
“What—”
The question dies on her lips when she looks up at me.
Yes, Abella. I’m what happened.
A sliver of vulnerability flashes in those pale green eyes that still carry too many secrets. The reaction is predictably on brand for the little liar, but it only leaves me with lingering questions.
Despite my wish to the contrary, our years apart have been good to her. She’s healthy, still haloed by that honeyed warmth that looks like she’s been kissed by the sun. Her features remain the same—long, dark lashes, high cheekbones, full lips, and impossibly smooth skin unblemished by time or hardship.
Her body has filled out, softening at the edges and developing the kind of generous curves women shell out six figures to recreate. She has a small waist, well-rounded hips, and an ass and tits that look like they were sculpted by Luo Li Rong.
I’d once foolishly compared her beauty to the works of the finest sculptors. At the time, I’d imagined Rong’s Forgotten Melody. Now, when I look at her, I can’t help but envision Cellini’s rendition of Perseus wielding the head of Medusa.
If I were smart, I’d toss her onto a church pew and never look at her again. The resentment I’ve harbored for her these past six years has been my constant companion, and as tempting as she might be, she’s still poison. Her eyes are the window to a thousand different memories, but the most potent is one that left a bitter aftertaste I can’t wash away.