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The doors open, and I stalk into the penthouse. Loosening the tie from around my neck, I head to the bedroom while saying, “I’m going to shower. Let me know when the food is here.”
“Will do.”
Stepping into the bathroom, I switch on the faucets before getting undressed. Soon, the bathroom is filled with steam, and as I climb into the shower, the warm water pelts my body.
My thoughts return to Gabriella, and I let out a sigh. Once I’ve arranged the marriage between her and Dario, I’ll have to start thinking about myself. I need an heir, and I’m not getting any younger.
But who?
Fuck, it doesn’t really matter. As long as the woman is able to bear children, I’m good.
I let out a sigh as I start to wash my body.
The last thing I’m looking forward to is getting married. My time is limited, and having another person to care for will only add to my exhaustion.
It’s not something to worry about right now.
I just have to focus on getting Miguel and his men out of New York. After the problem’s taken care of and Dario is engaged to Gabriella, I’ll revisit the idea of finding a wife for myself.
Chapter 8
Gabriella
It took me the whole day to get settled in the suite, and when I walk into the dining room for dinner, Mrs. Falco and Mrs. Accardi are already seated at the table.
“Where have you been hiding today?” Mrs. Accardi asks.
“I’ve been unpacking everything.” I take a seat at the table and give Gerardo a tentative smile when he also joins us.
Martha brings out the food, and when she places a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of me, I whisper, “Thank you.”
“I looked for you in your room and left the Wifi password on your bedside table,” Gerardo informs me.
“Thank you.”
Good, now I’ll be able to check my social media pages.
Crap, I’ll need an address for any promotional merchandise I get sent.
I glance at Gerardo, then push through and ask, “Which address can I use to receive packages?”
A frown forms on his forehead, and stabbing a meatball, he asks, “What kind of packages?”
“Sometimes I receive makeup and skincare products to promote on my social media pages.”
He thinks for a moment, then says, “I’ll arrange for a postbox where the stuff can be sent. Don’t ever give out the mansion’s address.”
That won’t happen, because I have no idea where the mansion is.
“Okay.” I nod quickly, then add, “Thank you.”
Mrs. Accardi cuts Mrs. Falco’s meatballs into smaller pieces before focusing on her own plate.
I twirl some spaghetti onto my fork and take a bite. While I chew, I glance at my dinner companions, thinking things seem much calmer here than at my parents’ house.
We never ate dinner as a family.
There were days I didn’t eat at all.
