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)
Leonardo pauses mid-chew, then lets out a low chuckle, the sound knowing, like he’s been waiting for something like this. “Ah.” He smiles, half-joking, half-serious, the kind of smile that says he gets it more than I probably want him to. “You’re here to make a plan.”
I meet his eyes across the counter and nod slowly.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I am.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” he says softly.
“I know.”
He picks up his glass, clinks it lightly against mine. The soft ring of crystal fills the quiet kitchen. We both take a long drink, the Barolo warm and dark on my tongue.
We’ll eat as we talk. And for the first time in my life, I’m ready to plan a future that doesn’t end in blood.
Chapter Forty-Six
VIOLA
Dawn light filters through the sheer curtains, soft and gray. It tells me the city has not yet woken up properly. I lie in the big bed, sheets tangled around my legs, and my first thought is him. My body already knows he’s moving around downstairs. I recognize the low hum of the coffee machine he always turns on as soon as he goes downstairs.
All I want to do is go downstairs and watch him until he leaves. It’s becoming downright embarrassing. Last time I “needed” coffee was at six a.m., exactly when he was heading out the door. Oh! The way his eyes lingered on me, warm and knowing, made my cheeks burn. I’d mumbled something stupid about not being able to sleep and practically fled back upstairs like a teenager with a crush. God, I’m a grown woman. His wife, technically. And here I am, hiding under the covers, fighting the ridiculous urge to creep to the top of the stairs just to catch one more glimpse of him before he disappears into the big bad city.
But this time I stay in bed. I listen instead.
His footsteps are quiet — deliberately so — because he doesn’t want to wake me. I know that. He’s always so careful with me now, like I’m something fragile that he’s afraid to break. I hear the soft click of the front door alarm being disarmed, the rustle of his suit jacket as he shrugs it on, the low murmur of his voice when he answers his cell phone.
My heart does this stupid little flutter.
I wish I could go down there. Just walk straight into the foyer, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him goodbye like it is the most natural thing in the world. He’d welcome it. I know he would. Those whiskey eyes would darken, his hands would settle on my waist, and he’d kiss me back slow and deep like he has all the time in the world.
The fantasy hits me so hard I actually shift under the sheets, thighs pressing together.
When are we just going to share a room permanently? The question slides through my mind before I can stop it. I know, I shouldn’t be thinking these ridiculous fantasies. This is supposed to be a contract: body only, no love, easy exit when I want it. But the thought of waking up every morning with his warm, solid body curled around mine, of falling asleep with his arm heavy across my waist… God, I can’t stop dreaming about it.
The way he’d pull me closer in his sleep without even realizing it.
Frustrated with myself, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, and try to force sleep to come, but it doesn’t. My mind won’t shut up. After twenty restless minutes, I give up, throw the covers back, and pad barefoot across the cool wood floor toward the closet.
There are three suitcases full of clothes in it. Everything was delivered from Salvatore’s mansion a few days ago. I open one of the suitcases and start hanging my clothes up. My fingers brush over silk blouses and soft cashmere sweaters that feel different now. Lighter. Mine. Back at Salvatore’s estate, the housekeepers handled everything, and I didn’t care. I floated through those rooms like a ghost, numb and detached, because none of it ever belonged to me. But here… here I’m reveling in it. Folding my own sweaters. Deciding which dresses go where. I even imagined where I might put a pottery wheel if Ricci really does build me a studio. The thought makes my chest feel strangely full.
A few hours later, my phone rings from the nightstand. My heart jumps. Perhaps its Ricci. I hurry back into the bedroom, a ridiculous little smile already tugging at my lips, and snatch it up without checking the screen.
It’s not him.
Disappointment crashes through me like cold water hitting bare skin. My thumb hovers over the glowing screen, staring at my sister’s name instead of the one I was stupidly hoping for. The little flutter in my chest dies, leaving behind a hollow, embarrassing ache I don’t want to name. I let out a long, slow breath and try to push it down, but it lingers anyway — heavy, ridiculous, and clinging to my ribs.