Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“I have about a million.” That left me with two hundred thousand dollars for Sara and me to buy furniture and live a little.
“Maybe we can convince the owners to go down on the price,” Amo said with a smirk.
I grinned. “We should give it a try.”
The owners eventually sold it to us for two million.
Now, I only had to hope that Sara liked the place. It even had a small rooftop garden. It was on the fourth floor of a classic brownstone townhouse. The place was actually furnished, but I wasn’t sure if Sara would like the style. The neighborhood wasn’t one I would have usually picked. I felt like an alien compared to everyone else, and the fearful glances I got told me people considered me one too, and a dangerous one at that. The people who lived here worked on Wall Street or in a posh law firm. They had PhDs and went to Ivy League colleges. Those people transplanted hearts to save lives; I ripped them out to kill enemies.
Sara’s parents too lived in a townhouse, but they owned the whole place. Not to mention that Romero and Flavio had the ability to look as if they didn’t have a long kill list.
The moment I bought the place, I called Sara. I hadn’t sent her any information before. Since this wasn’t a Famiglia place, I didn’t want her to like it when there was a—albeit slim—chance of me not getting the place. And I definitely didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t as rich as Paolo’s family. His family was swimming in money. I was working hard and would definitely one day make more than enough money to buy a whole townhouse without threatening the owner, but I was still young and hadn’t planned for marriage yet.
“You got a place?” Surprise swung in her voice.
“It’s on the same street as your parents’ house. It wasn’t Famiglia-owned, so I had to be quick.”
“The same street?” The joy in her voice told me I’d made the right decision.
“Would you like to see it?”
“I’m not feeling so well right now. Maybe you can send me photos? I’m sure it’s great.”
“Sure. I’ll send them right away. Are we still going ring shopping tomorrow?”
“No, I’m sorry. My morning sickness is too bad, and it’s making me feel sick all day. My mother will join you.”
“Alright. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
I hung up, trying not to be disappointed. I had absolutely no reason to be. So far, things were still going much better than I’d ever anticipated. Maybe Sara was really sick, or perhaps she simply didn’t want to spend so much time with me yet, and both were fucking fine. Fuck, she had to grow a baby inside her despite what she’d gone through. I already had trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that I would be a father soon.
I sent her the two dozen photos I’d taken today.
A few minutes later, she wrote me a text: It looks great. Let’s keep the furniture. We don’t need to spend more money.
I looked around the spacious master bedroom with the oak floors, comfortable king bed, windows overlooking the treetops, and the light gray marble en suite bathroom. I wasn’t sure if Sara and I would share this room. I wasn’t sure if we should even try in the beginning. There would be enough obstacles for us.
The weeks leading up to the wedding weren’t filled with anything remotely heartwarming or romantic. The wedding had been planned for a while. My future bride and I didn’t have a budding relationship that needed to be honed. She needed space, and I was more than okay with giving it to her. The only thing I occasionally wished for was knowing more about the pregnancy.
Would Sara even talk to me if she decided to end the pregnancy despite her previous decision? I sometimes asked Romero how Sara was doing or even Amo because he saw her when Sara’s family visited his parents. That way, I always stayed in the loop.
I wasn’t even sure how I would feel if Sara decided to get an abortion. I knew I didn’t have a right to talk her into any kind of decision after what had happened.
I shook my head. I needed to focus. I had a job to do—one that wasn’t usually my style, but I’d talked Primo into letting me handle it. Explosives were usually his area of expertise. He had never been as keen about torture as me. He preferred things with more impact on a grand scheme and less direct contact with people.
I read through Primo’s instructions once more. I too had learned how to handle explosives, but it had been a while since I’d used them. “Don’t fuck up, or Luca will fuck me up” were his last words on the piece of paper he’d handed me this morning.