Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“What do you need to talk to me about?” I ask, forcing my tone to stay cool, measured, even though my pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it rushing in my temples. “I have matters to handle.”
“Not from what I’ve heard,” he says, that sly smile spreading wider as he moves away toward the crystal decanter of Salvatore’s favorite Scottish whisky, specially smuggled in just for him. Mario pours himself a generous measure, the amber liquid glugging against the glass. He takes a long sip from the half-full glass and comes to perch at the edge of the coffee table directly opposite me. Our knees almost touch. He is close enough that I smell the peat smoke on his breath.
He takes another slow sip, eyes never leaving mine, savoring both the whisky and his new raw power. “I know that my father left nothing for you. Not a red cent. And I think that is tragic. A beautiful woman must always have lots of money. You see, I understand the need for hairdressers, designer clothes, jewelry, handbags, shoes. So … I have very good news for you. I wanted to reassure you that I don’t want to kick you out of this house as it belongs to me now, and I want you to have the same allowance my father gave you, Viola.”
His eyes devour me as he speaks, sliding down my body again, hungry and blatant, stripping me bare without laying a finger on me.
Everything about him sickens me. I was right; he is worse than his father. Not even the decency of a slime ball. I’d rather die than lay with him. I’ve seen his girlfriends over the years, make-up caked on to hide their black eyes, bruises ringing their wrists like bracelets.
I don’t let my shock at his proposition show. I keep my composure locked down tight, the same mask I’ve worn for years. “I’m your father’s widow,” I say quietly, the words measured, deliberate. “You’re really willing to go there?”
“Why not?” He laughs softly, a low guttural sound that makes my stomach turn. “Keeping it in the family is always the best policy. It’s the way it’s been done from time immemorial. The Mongols, for instance—the successor would claim his father’s widows to keep the bloodline and the power intact. It’s tradition.” He leans in a little more, elbows resting on his knees, whisky glass dangling loosely between his fingers. “I’m sure my father would be more than glad, looking down on us right now, knowing that his most delicious asset will be well cared for.” His voice drops, intimate, coaxing. “You’ll be comfortable and protected. And most importantly, you’ll be safe because I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave this house. Many widows in your position have met with violent deaths.”
Real fear races up my spine, cold and sharp as a blade, but I keep my expression fixed. I have to get out of here before I betray myself.
I stand up slowly, legs steady even though my heart is racing so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. I force a polite smile. “Thank you for your offer. It is a good offer, and I will give it the consideration it deserves before I get back to you with my answer.”
I nod and turn away. With my back to him, I feel caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I can’t go back to my father’s house—he’d sell me again in a heartbeat, trade me for another debt cleared. But I sure as hell can’t live under Mario’s so-called protection. And I can’t just be a normal woman who goes out, gets a job, and starts again, because neither of these monsters will allow me to do it. So, what the hell am I going to do?
The echo of his voice still lingered in my mind—oily, entitled, the smug certainty that I had nowhere else to go. It made my skin crawl, made me want to scrub myself raw just to get rid of the memory of his gaze sliding over me like I was already his.
I hurry out of the study before he can say anything else. As soon as the door shuts behind me my tears of frustration and anger spill over. They come hot and fast, blurring the hallway lights into streaks. I realize too late that I left my sunglasses on the table inside. Shit. Before anyone can see the mess of my face, I rush forward—straight into a broad, rock-hard chest.
The impact nearly knocks me off my feet, my breath punching out in a sharp gasp. Strong hands catch my arms instantly, steadying me, fingers warm and firm through the thin sleeves of my dress. I don’t want to be caught like this by any man, not now, not when I’m falling apart at the seams. I mumble a quick apology, my voice thick with emotion, and try to pull away, to keep moving toward my room, toward any place I can hide.