Page 44 of Thorns of Death
“He said he won’t be long. I sent him a text so he’d have my number; it’s on him to return it. I don’t want to come off clingy and desperate.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You’re thinking too much.” I didn’t agree. For the past two days, I’d waited and waited for Enrico to reach out. He hadn’t. He said he wouldn’t be long, yet a simple response to my text shouldn’t have been that hard. “I still cannot believe you hooked up with him.”
I shrugged. “We all do something reckless once in our lives,” I muttered. I knew Reina could relate. “This will be my wild moment. I’ll get it out of my system and everything will be back to normal.”
At least, I hoped so. It wouldn’t be easy to forget him. The man fucked like a beast, and I thrived on it. Apparently, I wasn’t frigid nor a saint when it came to carnal pleasure. Thank fuck. I should call that lame-ass ex-boyfriend that didn’t know where to stick his penis and tell him how Daddy Enrico made me come screaming his name. Or better yet, I could record us and maybe that little “boy” could learn how to fuck women.
“What did he say about the woman who looked like his wife?” she asked curiously, pulling me away from the petty revenge thoughts.
I let out a heavy sigh.
This was the part that bothered me the most. Enrico swore he didn’t have a wife, but he never really explained who the woman was that looked like his dead wife. It felt stupid to admit it, though.
“Never mind Marchetti and me,” I said instead. “Tell me how things are going with you.”
“Fine.” Her voice was clipped, which meant she was the opposite of fine. “Perfect, in fact.”
I took a sip of my cappuccino and shot her a curious glance. “That bad, huh?”
I thought I saw a flicker of anxiety flare in her big blue eyes, but she hid it behind a fake smile.
“Listen—” I broke off, my heart lodging in my throat. We just managed to dodge a cyclist at the last second, but not before Reina could shoot out some French obscenities at him. My best friend cursed only when she was furious or down in the dumps. I gave her a knowing look.
“Ugh, it’s not as bad as you think,” she started explaining. I tilted my head, studying her. Was she lying to herself, too? “It’s not,” she assured, the protest weak on her lips. “Dante is trying to be—” She searched for the word but apparently failed to find it. “He wants to have a few dates so we can getacquainted,” she muttered.
She grimaced as she said “dates,” and it didn’t take a genius to know she didn’t want to get to know Dante better.
“Shouldn’t you say no to this farce?” I said. “I hate to see you like this.”
She shrugged, her golden hair blowing in the breeze. “It seems the Leone brothers will be the end of me after all.”
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, anxiety for my friend fluttering in my throat. She stopped too, but her eyes weren’t on me. They were on her phone screen. She was throwing herself into work, drowning in it, rather than dealing with this fucked-up arranged marriage.
“Reina, look at me.” Her beautiful eyes glimmered like the Mediterranean Sea under the bright sun. “Call the wedding off. I’m sure your dad will understand.”
She shook her head, sad and resigned. “No, I can’t. I gave my word. It’s to keep us safe.”
I was tempted to drop all the bags and grab her by the shoulders and shake her. To shake some sense into her.
“People change their minds all the time,” I told her. “Engagements end. It’s not the end of the world. It’s a bad idea for you to be around either Leone brother. Puts your secret at risk. It definitely doesn’t keepyousafe.”
“Stop. It.” Two words, but there was so much anger in them. “I made my mind up and that’s it.”
She resumed walking again as I stared blankly after her. Her posture was rigid, tension in her slim shoulders evident.
Someone bumped into my shoulder, waking me out of stupor, and I rushed after her.
“You never struck me as the type to give up, Reina,” I said, our steps synchronized as we made our way to our apartment. “So don’t start now.”
She flicked me a glance. “Oh, I amnotgiving up.”
Somehow I believed it, but before I could ask her about it, a familiar face caught my attention. The woman who looked like Enrico’s dead wife stood across the street, her eyes—full of raw hate—on me.
My steps faltered, and to my horror, I realized the woman was crossing the street, headed straight for me.
Before I could react, she lunged for my arm, digging her nails into my wrist. “I know who you are, whore,” she hissed.
