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)
I’ve never let myself imagine a future like this. Not with Salvatore. Not with anyone. Children were always something distant, something other women got to have in safe, normal lives. Even when I lost my baby, I told myself it was a blessing in disguise. No child deserved to have Salvatore as his father. But now the thought of a baby with Ricci blooms hot and dangerous behind my ribs. That is a future where my child is not just surviving, but living a good life. A life where I get to watch him be gentle with our child the way he is gentle with me.
My heart is pounding so hard, and the warmth spreading through my chest is terrifying because it feels like hope, and hope is the most dangerous thing I own right now.
Reign it in, I tell myself sharply.
I force my attention back to the groceries. My hands start moving again, pulling out the bread, the cheese, the tomatoes. I force myself to focus on the simple, mechanical task of unpacking. Anything. Anything at all that isn’t the dangerous warmth blooming inside me, the image of dark-haired babies with golden eyes.
But I can’t stop the hope from lingering.
Not completely.
It stays there, quiet and stubborn, tucked behind my ribs like a secret I’m afraid to name. Every time I glance at Ricci as he works, the image flickers again. Stronger. Sweeter.
I bite the inside of my cheek until it hurts, trying to push it down, trying to remind myself that this is still just a contract, an arrangement of convenience. I must guard my heart. What if he loses interest? I promised myself I would stay cold, and I must.
But it’s getting harder and harder to remember why.
Chapter Forty-One
RICCI
She leans over my shoulder, watching the stove as I stir the tomato soup. She’s close enough that I can smell her skin. It is sweet, and warm, and intoxicating. The side of her breast brushes against my arm, soft and warm through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. I feel that accidental press of her body against mine like a spark. And I realize I’m having the best time with her quiet, warm presence right here in my kitchen, the two of us moving around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of once.
The soup simmers, the rich scent of garlic and herbs filling the air. I turn my head just slightly and, unable to resist, press a soft kiss to her mouth. She melts into it for a second, her lips parting under mine, and something marvelously warm settles deep in my chest.
“It’s ready,” I murmur.
I carry the pot over to the counter and open a bottle of wine. The cork pops softly, and the deep red liquid glugs into two glasses. We settle down to eat right there at the island, plates of grilled cheese on toast and a big bowl of soup between us. The first bite is perfect, melted sharp cheddar on crispy bread, and the soup rich and velvety on the tongue.
She takes a spoonful. A tiny, unconscious sound of pleasure escapes her — soft, almost surprised — and it settles deep in my chest like a hook. I love that sound. I want to hear it again and again. “Wow! This is amazing,” she says, voice soft and genuine. “The flavor is… I didn’t expect poor people’s food to be this good.”
I smile, watching her.
There’s something so satisfying about seeing her enjoy something I made. Something simple. Something that doesn’t come from money, power or fear. Just ordinary food. Just us.
She takes another spoonful of the soup and nods as the rich, warm flavors hit her tongue again.
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The kitchen feels warm and intimate, the low hum of the refrigerator the only background noise. Every now and then our eyes meet across the island, and each time something quiet and electric passes between us. I let the moment stretch, savoring the rare peace of having her here, relaxed, sharing a meal I cooked with my own hands.
Then her phone starts ringing from the counter.
The sharp, insistent sound cuts through the peace like a blade. She glances at the screen, and I watch her expression shift instantly. The soft contentment fades into something guarded and tired. She doesn’t reach for it, and the phone keeps ringing, loud and persistent, vibrating against the marble. She groans softly, her shoulders tensing, the line of her spine straightening like she’s bracing for battle.
“You can leave to take it privately,” I tell her, keeping my voice easy.
She shakes her head, eyes still on the screen. “It’s not that. I don’t want to pick it up.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who is it?”
She sighs, long and weary. “One of the wives I’ve met at family events over the years.”