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Christian
“Where the hell are you?” I growl over the phone.
I haven’t seen Christopher in a month and a long absence usually means he has gotten himself into some kind of mess that he likely needs help getting out of.
“Chris, it’s 7 a.m. where I’m at. As in, it’s too early in the morning for you to be yelling at me.”
“Where are you?”
He rattles off his location and I immediately transfer the information to Carlo.
“Stay there. Two of our men will come to get you.”
“No,” he groans. “But I’m having so much fun.”
“Topher, you’re hungover—from alcohol, drugs, I have no fucking idea. And frankly, I don’t give a damn. But you will get your ass back to the U.S. right now. And while you’re at it, maybe screw your head on straight,” I add with gritted teeth.
“You’re such a killjoy,” Topher mutters. “How’s Dany? You manage to scare her off yet?”
I haven’t, and that is itself a relief and a complete mystery. I was so sure she would say no to the marriage proposal, cut her losses, and move on. But she surprised me.
“She’s alright” is my clipped reply to his question.
Topher makes a hum of amusement. “So she stuck with you for a month and still hasn’t run for the hills. Damn. I would praise her survival skills, but I can’t. Girl’s got none.”
My jaw tightens. Everything my brother is saying is exactly what I’ve said to myself several times over the past hour. She told me why she didn’t leave, and while I understand why, a part of me wishes she had saved us both the trouble. Because deep down, I can’t shake the sense that we’re doomed for failure.
“Carlo wants to speak to you,” I say, ignoring his statement.
My older brother collects the phone. I lean my back into my chair, twirling a pen between my fingers. I had been in the middle of signing some documents when Carlo walked in asking me to find out where Christopher is. For some reason, I’m the only one he ever listens to.
Although listening to his conversation with our brother, it’s pretty clear I’m the only one who ever handles him with a firm hand. Both Carlo and Mother are so fucking soft with him. No wonder he escaped life in the mafia. No one forced him to put a bullet into a man’s head when he was sixteen.
I dispel the petty thought, turning my attention to the papers in front of me. Later that night, I return to the mansion only to find Daniella in the exact same position I found her in a few days again—fast asleep on the steps.
“You have got to stop sleeping here,” I announce.
She opens her eyes and takes one look at me before scrambling to her feet.
“I can’t help it,” she says, yawning. “You never come home early and my body is primed to sleep by 10 p.m.”
I give her a dry look. “You’re a grown-ass woman with a bedtime of 10 p.m.? That’s just sad.”
She glares at me. “Excuse you, whose fault is that? In college, I would have spent my nights at clubs or bars, dancing and partying, but I can’t do that anymore.”
“Yes, you can’t. Because you’re not in fucking college anymore.”
“And because I’m supposed to get married to a misogynistic asshole.”
“I’m not misogynistic,” I tell her, climbing up the steps.
“Really? Because it’s hard to believe that when you act like a jerk all the time.”
With a sigh, I push open the door of my bedroom.
“Would you stop following me in here?” I ask her. Anytime she walks into my bedroom, she manages to disrupt something I’ve painstakingly arranged. “For the love of God, you’re like a fuckingcuciollo!”
“Did you just call me a damn puppy!”
