Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Laura’s not involved in the fighting, but it’s still her family we plan on killing. I know which side she’ll choose, and I can’t even blame her for it.
Which is why I don’t want to force her hand.
Because I need her. Fuck, I need her, and I don’t want to lose her. When I’m with Laura, for the first time in my life, it’s like I’m at peace. I don’t have to think about Luciano, or about revenge, or about my parents. I can simply be with her, and that’s enough.
It’s a rare and special feeling, and I don’t think I’ll ever find it again.
Not with anyone else.
But the situation is beginning to slip out of my control, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Chapter 31
Laura
Another summons from the Don. When the text appeared on my phone from Simon’s personal line basically commanding me to his office, I thought about ignoring it. I mean, in all the years I’ve been living here, I’ve barely been in the main office because I’m only tangentially involved with the Famiglia. My siblings all take it very seriously, but to me, it’s barely a consideration.
Now it’s like Simon thinks he has some kind of power over me. Which honestly kind of pisses me off.
That anger simmers in my guts as I stomp through the house, bang on his door, and storm into the office. It smells like burning firewood and old furniture polish. Not the worst, all things considered.
Simon doesn’t look up from the file he’s reading on his computer screen. His lips are pressed together, and he holds up a hand for me to wait, like he’s not even remotely surprised that I just barged into his private sanctum without announcing myself first.
“Almost done,” he says, knitting his brows in concentration. “Do you know how many whiny emails I get from my Capos? And how many of them are fucking incriminating? These are supposed to be clever, hardened criminals, and yet I swear they’re a bunch of hormonal teenagers with ego problems half the time.”
I walk over to his bookshelf, pick out a volume at random, and carry it over to the fireplace. The logs burn with a merry crackle. I glance at the cover—it’s in Latin and looks very old—before tossing it on the flames.
Simon makes a choking sound. I walk over to the bookshelf and grab another. This one’s got gold lettering over green leather, something about economics. I walk it over to the fireplace.
“Point made,” Simon says quickly. He shoves his keyboard away and stands up. “Please, stop burning my books.”
I throw it on top of the other and brush my hands together. “Just trying to get your attention. I’m sure you can replace them.”
He glares at me, jaw working. “Some of these are antiques. Dad collected them.”
“All the more reason to burn the whole lot.” I face my brother the Don, arms crossed over my chest. That stunt was childish and petty, but it felt really good. “What do you want?”
His expression gets serious as he sits back down. His hands remain flat on the desk and he’s leaning forward, staring intently. Seconds pass and he doesn’t speak, leaving me lingering by the fire wondering what the hell this is about and why he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than right here. But he finally pulls some papers from a drawer and pushes them toward me.
I walk over and recognize Marco’s profile. The same profile he procured for me once already.
My skin gets cold and clammy. My hands start to sweat.
Simon says nothing. He keeps staring at me, and I know what this is about. I can’t take my eyes from Marco’s image on the front page: it’s him, but it’s not him, not really, it doesn’t capture the amusement in his smile and the sparkle in his eyes and the way his hands feel on my hips. It’s not Marco, and it’s definitely not Jackal. The two men I feel myself spiraling toward.
“I’m not going to apologize,” I say, and my voice is very small and very soft, but I mean it.
“How did it start?”
It’s a simple question. It should be easy. But it contains too much. Instead, I deflect. “You followed me.”
“Of course I followed you,” he says, some of his anger finally spilling over. “Laura, you haven’t shown any interest in leaving your house for years, then suddenly you want a fucking car? I had to make sure you were okay. Imagine my surprise when you’re caught sneaking out with Marco fucking Vitale. He was a goddamn Santoro lieutenant.”
The hurt in his voice cracks my shell. I can’t close the gaps in my chest fast enough, and more emotions leak through: shame, self-loathing, hatred, fear. My heart’s skittering along in my chest and my hands tremble, and I disgust myself and don’t recognize my own reactions anymore.