Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Enzo dipped a famous model to the floor, his lips a breath away from hers.
Achilles had a shoulder pressed against the wall, surveilling the room with his dead eyes, hands in his pockets. He didn’t dance, and I wondered if it was out of choice, or because no woman was brave enough to touch him.
“Roger, please.” My mother tapped a waiter on the shoulder. A middle-aged man spun around in his uniform, holding a silver tray filled to the brim with champagne. “Get Lila more pink lemonade,” my mother prompted. “Two ice cubes. Plastic cup.”
No sharp objects for me. My mother said I had severe mental impairment, which put me at age six or below on the scale.
A handsome, fair-haired man approached us from the center of the room. I recognized him instantly. Angelo Bandini was in his early thirties, impeccably mannered and dressed, and prominent in his family business. Sofia’s older brother.
He kissed Mama’s and Papa’s cheeks, then turned to me with a hopeful smile.
My heart fluttered against my rib cage like a butterfly testing its new wings. I forced myself not to smile back.
“Might I ask the youngest Ferrante for a dance?” I watched his lips move. He opened his hand, offering it to me.
My fingers twitched in anticipation beside my body.
“My daughter doesn’t dance,” Mama said.
Angelo chuckled good-naturedly. “Surely, just once? With her new brother-in-law. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Mama stepped forward, cementing herself between us. I couldn’t see what she was saying, but Angelo’s beam morphed into a scowl. The sharp movements of her arms told me she was yelling. The blood drained from my face.
Mama had always been overprotective of me. Most of the time I was grateful, but this time…this time something dark and resentful unfurled behind my rib cage.
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on this, Lady Chiara,” Angelo’s mouth moved smoothly as he stepped back. A sheet of brutality draped over his expression. “I could count the things I wanted and never got on one hand and intend to keep it that way.” His gaze flitted to President Keaton across the room and the woman he held possessively in a waltz. His wife, Francesca.
“Forgive my wife.” Papa inclined his liver-spotted head. “The wedding preparations have left her exhausted and distraught. She means no disrespect, Bandini. My daughter…” Papa pinched my cheek, then kissed his fingers. “She’s simple, you see.”
What a prick. Mama told him to stop using this derogatory word, but he never listened.
“No hard feelings, Don Vello.” Angelo’s lips expanded into an insincere smile, which my father returned. He then yanked Mama by the elbow, dragging her reluctant figure to the dance floor to save face. Angelo strode away, but not before giving me one last derisive look.
I stood alone, surrounded by couples.
Jealousy clogged my throat. I normally didn’t mind being left alone—preferred it, actually—but right now, I hated it.
I turned around and stormed away, shouldering past catering staff and uniformed waiters. The main entrance was swarming with soldiers and security, so I slipped through the wine cellar’s door.
I was immediately clasped in a womb of darkness.
Crimson Key was an island tucked between Florida and the Bahamas. An independent jurisdiction that belonged to my family. The Devil’s Playground, as the rich called it.
It consisted of our mansion, a few hotels of award-winning grandeur, golf courses, and casinos. Trusted friends of the family had snowbird properties here, but it was Ferrante turf through and through.
Tropic humidity licked at my skin. I felt suffocated—by the heat, my dress, and most of all, my family.
I glared behind my shoulder at the arched windows of the ballroom. Usually, when music started playing, I retired to an adjoining empty room, laid on the floor, and closed my eyes. The bass reverberating against my spine mimicked the tempo of the music. It was the closest I could get to listening to it. Right now, though, I didn’t want to lie still.
Wrenching my heels off, I stomped barefoot past the Roman balustraded pool and the densely planted cypresses framing the estate, farther down, toward the thick woods enveloping the back of the property. I kicked the dirt with a huff as I left the pickleball court and pool house behind me, putting more space between the wedding and me. At the end of the vast expanse of tropical trees was a strip of pearly-white sand kissing the Atlantic Ocean. It was my secret spot. A place I often visited on the island when no one was paying attention.
I didn’t care that I was soiling my dress with dirt and mud. Didn’t care that Papa was going to be furious. That Mama was going to be worried. I wanted to lick my wounds privately.
Ten minutes later, I reached the end of the woods. I fell down to my knees, the cold grains of sand digging into my fine bones, and stared at the blackened ocean, biting my lower lip. I grabbed a handful of smooth rocks, tossing them out to the ocean.