Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16246 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 81(@200wpm)___ 65(@250wpm)___ 54(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16246 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 81(@200wpm)___ 65(@250wpm)___ 54(@300wpm)
“So then, I’m just...interest?"
I don't like the hurt in her voice, "You're his only child. His legacy. And his way out of all the mistakes he's buried himself under. By taking you, I take his hope. It's just a bonus that it also frees you from having to spend the rest of your life with Charles fucking Beaumont."
"I could have said no to the marriage," she insists, but even as the words leave her lips, I can tell she doesn't believe them.
"Could you? Really? After seeing the proof of your father's desperation? He would have found another way to use you. This way, you're with me and…safe."
"Safe?" She scoffs, turning away from me to look back out at the sea. "You're the head of a crime family, Adrian. You kidnapped me. Nothing about this feels safe."
That's fair. She needs to see, not just be told. So I change tactics. "Alright, princess. Time to go shopping. You can't spend your days here in a robe and you can't keep wearing that stained gown." I gesture towards the dress she wore last night, which is now a crumpled heap on the floor of her closet. "We'll go into Positano. Get you whatever you need."
Her eyes widen. "Go out? In public?"
"Yes. But you'll wear this." I pull a silk scarf from my pocket, a pattern of deep blues and greens that will complement her eyes. "And sunglasses. Your father has undoubtedly reported you missing by now. Your face will be all over the news. We can't have anyone recognizing you."
The thought seems to terrify her, but also excites her a little. A small adventure in the middle of her captivity.
An hour later, we're winding down the steep path from the villa to Positano's main street in a small, open-topped sports car. Elena is silent beside me, her head turned to take in the stunning views, the scarf tied around her hair, and oversized dark glasses hiding most of her face. She looks like a movie star trying to go incognito, and she's happy to stay with her hand resting on my forearm. The fact that she doesn't try to run is just another bit of proof that she's glad to be away from the fate Laurent had decided for her.
It might be the first time in my life I've been the lesser of two evils. The thought makes me grin.
We shop, and I buy Elena anything and everything she admires before we head to my tailor to have her measured for the more formal pieces. Afterwards we share lunch and gelato, and it’s peaceful enough that I can almost fool myself that we’re a normal couple. That I’m not a monster, but simply a man.
Almost.
It's just past 7pm when I make it back home. My blood has been running hot since the moment I first laid eyes on Elena, and the time away has given me the space to get control of myself again. But when I see Elena waiting for me at the dining table, wearing one of the sun dresses I bought for her, I feel out of control all over again.
What sort of spell is this woman casting? I've never felt this way about anyone or anything. It goes beyond lust and dives headfirst into obsession.
She looks up at me from her seat expectantly, hands folded in her lap, but she can't hide her blush. I know she chose this dress for me. She knows how good she looks in it. The soft, pale yellow fabric drapes over her curves, the thin straps leaving her shoulders bare. I want to trace them with my tongue. I want to peel that dress right off her body.
I take the seat opposite her. "I trust you had a restful afternoon."
"I did," she says, her voice a little breathless. "Maria showed me where everything is. The house is...stunning."
"It's been in my family for generations. My father loved it here."
The mention of my father seems to pique her interest. "What was he like?"
"He was a good man," I say, but the words feel inadequate. "Better than me." I don't mention that my father was the one who walked away from the Cosa Nostra, who tried to build a legitimate life, a legacy for me, only to have it all stolen by her father. She knows, and there's no reason to pour salt into the wound when she is innocent of her father's wrongdoings.
"And your mother?"
"Dead. A long time ago."
A flicker of sympathy crosses her face, "Mine too." The simple statement hangs in the air between us.
But I don't want to talk about the sad, dark things that haunt our pasts. I want to talk about what happens now that she's mine. I let the subject fade, and ask her instead about the wine, the food, and feel satisfaction when she has nothing but good things to say about it all. I know she must be dying to ask about who is looking for her, or when she can return to her old life, but something is holding her back. That's for the better, though.