Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
A woman stands at the front door, greeting people. Her curves are the kind that makes me think of old Hollywood, like a pinup girl: a comparatively thin waist with big hips and big, tempting tits, her shape highlighted by the blue dress she’s wearing.
Her tights make me want to rip them, revealing her curvy legs and her thick thighs. She’s the gold standard for beauty ideals, dammit. This is strange. I’m hungry, for her. I should leave. I’m meant to die alone. I never found that depressing before. I never cared, but now…
She looks up and spots me. Her hair is light blond and wavy down to her shoulders. Her eyes are bright and friendly.
“Hello,” she says, handing me a small gift bag. “Welcome to the Marinos.”
I take the bag; our hands brush. Something like electricity buzzes up my arm and makes my hair stand on edge. I’m struggling not to grab her hips, pull her right up against me, kiss her, own her.
“Uh, hello,” I say awkwardly.
“Have you two met?” Colt asks, looking between us.
I shake my head.
“You really are antisocial, eh, Dante?” Colt smirks. “Dante, this is Mia Marino, Luca and Elio’s cousin. Mia, this is Dante Bianchi, a friend of the Family.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Mia says quietly, looking down as if my staring is making her uncomfortable.
“Uh,” I say, then apparently lose the ability to speak. “You too.”
She nods, still staring at the ground. I almost want to reach over and gently touch her chin—as gently as I can, anyway—and guide her gaze to mine. Make her look at me. It doesn’t make sense, my woman not wanting to meet my eyes.
My woman? My woman?
Quickly, I walk by her through the door, almost running into the party so I can get away from Mia.
CHAPTER 2
Mia
I learned how to hide my emotions at a young age, even from myself. When there are monsters in the dark—evil, ugly things happening behind closed doors—I developed the ability to paint my features just like I paint a canvas. So even as my heart is thundering and my mind is spinning—who is that guy?—I continue greeting the guests.
But Dante won’t leave my mind. He was tall, his hair dusky with a few flecks of silver, his eyes dark and intense. There was something about the way he looked at me that forced me to turn away. My body is experiencing things it has absolutely no business experiencing.
I promised myself a long time ago that I’d keep these sorts of feelings far, far away. Ignoring guys was easy until a few minutes ago.
A brushstroke in my mind paints Dante, highlighting his thick arms bulging out of his shirt, his big chest, and the darkness in his voice. Most of all, I think about his eyes, dark brown, almost black, seeming angry at everything, furious with the world.
I promised myself I’d die alone. No man. No marriage. No kids. I’m too broken for that.
Suddenly, my breath catches. What the hell?
It’s Tony Marino, Leonardo’s brother, and my dad. He’s the whole reason I left the West Coast as soon as I could after turning eighteen, the whole reason I’m staying with Leonardo and Alessia. Not that I told them Dad was the reason. I just said I wanted a change of scenery.
Dad swaggers over to me, his thumbs looped through his belt, grinning from ear to ear. He’s a short, broad man, but seeing him that way is difficult. In my head, red paint flickers around him like flames. His eyes glow a devilish red, not in reality. Not really, but that’s how it feels, how he seems.
“Mia,” he says, leaning forward as if to kiss me.
I take a small step back. I hate, hate, hate the fear that’s pulsing through me right now, this animal fight-or-flight. It feels so pathetic, so sad. It makes me feel like a loser. I want to scream, but there’s deep programming in me—rules embedded before I even had memories—that keeps me silent.
“D-Dad,” I whisper.
He grins, flashing his silver tooth, bringing back twisted memories of him smiling at me in other contexts. “Surprised?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“Good surprised or bad surprised?” he says.
He doesn’t want the honest answer. He never has. “Good.”
He takes his hands from the thumb loops and claps them together, grinning like this is the most fun he’s ever had. “Excellent,” he beams. “We need to have a discussion in private. Okay?”
My skin buzzes in an ugly, sick way. All the warmth from a few moments ago evaporates. “I told Alessia I’d greet the guests.”
“Who would you rather disappoint, your aunt or your dad? Hmm?” He’s still got a smile on his face, but his tone tells me everything I need to know.
“My aunt,” I say, feeling so weak, hating myself, hating the secret burning inside of me, hating him, but knowing there’s nothing I can do.