Page 227 of Marcello

Does he know about my father? Does he know about the Cosa Nostra?!

“What do you mean?” I asked as panic bubbled up inside me.

“You’re 21 years old, but you live at home with your father,” he said coldly. “You don’t go to university, you never talk about having any friends – it’s like you live in a prison when you’re not with me. And you sure as hell don’t talk about it.”

‘It’s like you live in a prison when you’re not with me.’

Yeah, I’d say that pretty much describes it.

“Is your family incredibly rich or something, and that’s why your father never lets you out? Like he’s a billionaire or something, and he’s afraid you’ll get kidnapped?”

I don’t know if Papa’s a billionaire… but he’s probably a multi, multi-millionaire.

“Why do you say that?” I asked, trying to keep my emotions in check.

Then he took it in a direction I hadn’t anticipated.

“You’re obviously accustomed to money. You never comment about the hotel room or the room service, like you just expect it.”

His tone was just so nasty –

Like I was a gold-digger or something.

“What, so I’m a spoiled, entitled bitch?” I snapped, more hurt than anything.

“No!” he said loudly. “I don’t care about you thanking me – it’s just obvious you take it all for granted. Which is something someone accustomed to a lot of wealth would do.”

“Thank you for the hotel room and the room service.”

I tried to be nice –

But I wasn’t quite over the whole You’re a gold-digging whore part.

“Yeah, you sound real grateful,” he sneered.

Now I got angry.

It was totally fucking obvious what he was doing – and I decided to call him on his shit.

“You’re just trying to change the subject! I don’t even know your last name! Is Romeo even your real first name?!”

“Is Giulietta yours?”

Shit.

I couldn’t ask him anymore –

Because if he started asking me things and tugging on that thread, then everything might unravel.

I just stared down at the food on my plate, even though my appetite was gone.

When Romeo spoke again, he sounded like he just wanted to keep the peace. “Look, it’s obvious we both have some things we’d like to keep secret. Why don’t we just let sleeping dogs lie, and agree not to ask each other things we don’t want to talk about?”

Except I didn’t want peace.

I wanted answers.

“Why don’t you want to talk about them?” I asked.