Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“It’s okay. You’re getting married to a stranger in a few weeks. I’d be freaking out too.”
“Would you though?”
“Eh, probably not. You know me. I love a good ceremony.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Can you tell Chiara and Maya that I don’t feel good? Make up some excuse. I don’t want them to see me like this.”
“Sure, I can do that, but they get it too.”
“I know they do. I’m just embarrassed and feeling stupid.”
Sophia hugs me tighter. “Don’t worry. You’ll always have me here to cover for you, even if your last name is Rossi.”
I sob again and that only makes Sophia apologize a thousand times, but it isn’t her fault. The thought of losing my name, the reality of what’s going to happen, it kills me.
I’ll never work for Michael again. No more nonprofit. No more charities, no more dreams. Just like Gian said.
I don’t even know if Saul will let me volunteer.
Which is horrible to think about—I’ll need the permission of my freaking husband to do anything.
I head up to my room while Sophia goes to make excuses for me. She’s amazing and I don’t deserve her. I promise myself that I’ll pick whatever dress she wants, just to make her happy, even if it’s that ugly mermaid thing.
But when I’m alone with my door shut and locked, I sit on my bed cross-legged and scroll through my phone’s contacts until I find his name. Gian’s still in there, still under Sexy Cheater, a reference to our first meeting. I chew my lip as I pick his name and open up a text screen. Our old messages are all long gone. I’m thankful for that.
My hands are shaking as I type.
Me: Tell me right now. Did you mean what you said at my engagement party?
He responds two minutes later when I’m curled up under the covers, fairly certain I just made a horrible mistake.
It’s still him. Still his same number from all those years ago. And the reply makes me want to scream.
Gian: I meant every word. The offer stands.
Chapter 9
Gian
Iwalk into a quiet little French cafe off Green Street right near Fairmount. It’s a leafy neighborhood, lots of expensive red-brick houses, and there’s nobody but a bored-looking barista behind the counter. I order two drinks, both Americanos, and pick the table right next to the door.
Nobody knows me here, but I’m still on alert, watching everyone who walks past. I’m on the edge of Russian territory, technically still within the turf controlled by Don Orsino Milano. It’s something of a dead zone though, a buffer between their two organizations, and I chose it because the chances of someone spotting me are pretty low.
It’s the only way I could get Allegra to meet.
I’m nervous. I fucking hate that. I’ve done risky, dangerous things all my life, gone into combat without a single hesitation, pulled off enormous million-dollar deals without so much as a care in the world, but this makes me sweat. I’m meeting a girl for coffee, and I’m acting like it’s the most important thing ever.
But the ramifications of this meeting could be huge.
If we actually go through with this deal—the fallout is going to change everything.
My brothers are going to hate me, Saul and Renzo in particular. I’ll be betraying them, stealing a woman from the hero, causing a rift with the Rinaldo Famiglia. I told Allegra we’d stay together for a year until our two organizations became tightly linked together, but I’m worried we’ll only destroy whatever tenuous alliance Renzo’s managed to establish.
I still want to go through with it.
That’s the most fucked-up part. I should have second thoughts, but I don’t. All I see, all I can feel, is marrying Allegra. I’ve been obsessing about it since that night, and now I can almost taste her again.
The bell over the door chimes and she steps into the room. Allegra looks around and spots me before walking over. She’s wearing a simple navy sundress, her hair down past her shoulder, thick and wavy, little to no makeup as always. She’s gripping the strap of a bag and holding it in front of her body like a shield. Her tension ripples through her posture.
“You came,” I say and gesture at the chair across from me. “I got your drink.”
She doesn’t sit. “You remember?”
“I got you an Americano every morning for a week. I won’t ever forget it.”
Her eyebrows knit, and I’m not sure if she likes that or not. Truth is, I’ve been drinking the same thing ever since I left for Vegas all those years ago. At first, it was to feel close to her, some pathetic way to cling onto the emotions I ran away from, but now it’s just regular habit.
“I don’t know if you think that’s sweet or something, but it’s kind of creepy.” She sits down and takes a sip.