Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Her body comes alive for me, drenching my cock in her arousal.
I mutter a curse under my breath. I’m not going to last. This is what I get for torturing myself for hours.
Abella whimpers, and her eyes begin to flutter as I grip her hip and fuck her harder.
“Angelo,” she breathes.
“I know.” I fumble my way to her clit and stroke her roughly. “You feel so good, cara mia. I need you to come for me.”
My voice is rough, edged with need, and Abella doesn’t hold back as she cries out, her pussy gushing over my cock.
“Cazzo,” I growl into her neck as I thrust deep and unload my aching balls inside her.
The release of built-up tension drains everything from me, and minutes later, I’m still lying there lifeless as Abella turns and presses a kiss to my jaw.
“Good morning.” She smiles sleepily.
A dark laugh rumbles from my chest as I peer down at her.
“Good morning, bella.”
40
ANGELO
Ascowl settles over my face as I read the notification from Abella’s ring app, alerting me she’s due to start her period today.
Our lives have been busy. The Vitale empire is a well-oiled machine, but it still requires me to keep my thumb on the pulse of all our businesses—legal and otherwise. Between that and chasing up this bullshit with Grant Ellison, I’ve had little time to breathe. The days have blended together, weeks turning into months, and as I check the calendar, I realize we’re now in the fourth month since we married.
Abella has been stressed at work, taking on too many clients ahead of The Society ball, and the long hours have left her drained. On top of that, she has The Fifth House, book club meetings, and other engagements her friends invite her to.
She has a full life, and I don’t expect her to sit home and wait for me all day, but I can’t shake the paranoia clawing at my gut. Every month, when her period arrives, she grows distant and takes on more projects as a means of distracting herself.
Something feels off, and I can’t escape the thought that she doesn’t want a family anymore. At least not with me.
She knows what’s at stake, but that doesn’t count for much when the trust between us is paper-thin and she’s still keeping secrets. Her father and Carlo Pagnotto both told me she would fuck me over, and they made it sound…intentional. Those words have been echoing through my mind ever since.
The thought darkens my already bitter mood after last night’s council meeting. The men are breathing down my neck to find Grant Ellison’s mistress, and the tension festering between them has become a cancer. Paranoia has sparked accusations between those who never trusted Grant and those still loyal to him.
If I don’t find out what happened to him soon, there could be a political war on the horizon, and that’s a fucking problem I don’t need right now. It’s giving me a headache, and I usually cure headaches with a bullet. In this case, I’d have to dig graves for half the prominent names in Seattle, so it’s not an option. That’s where today’s lunch comes into play.
After Nonna stuffs the men into a food coma, I’ll offer them a sacrificial lamb to put everyone at ease.
The man tied up in the woodshed is currently the best lead we have. My men caught him trying to extort money from Grant’s wife to buy his silence about the mistress. Typically, these threats are a dime a dozen when there’s a politician involved, but in this case, it’s a consequence of Grant’s stupidity. He hired Ray Dalton as his off-the-books muscle for situations he must not have wanted the Cosa Nostra to know about. It’s a problem, and if the bastard wasn’t already missing, I’d put him in a pine box myself.
I check my watch, noting the guests will be arriving soon. With the men from the council, Abella’s friends, and my siblings, it will be a full house.
Abella’s been busy this morning helping Nonna in the kitchen, so I expect to find her there. Instead, I find Cristian manning giant vats of sauce on the stove.
“Any idea where my wife might be?” I ask him.
“They’re in the garden,” he grunts.
I smirk at his irritation. Cristiano is tall, inked, and surly. He knows how to gut a man like a fish, and he’ll do it without a second thought. But when Nonna tells him to man the sauce, he mans the sauce.
I exit the double doors at the rear of the house and navigate my way through the backyard. Abella’s friends have already gathered on one of the lounges, sipping cocktails as they discuss the upcoming ball. That probably explains why most of my brothers are out here, too.
I pass through a set of hedges before I reach the legacy garden. Together, Martina Moretti and my mother cultivated this plot. Using seeds and cuttings from Italian-American families, they preserved the living heirlooms that had been passed down from the old country for decades.