Page 7 of The Billionaire's Pact

Cassidy’s mouth dropped open. “The Marinis?” Her eyes widened when I didn’t correct her. “Oh, my God, you’re serious. You know that I know the Marinis from my pre-law courses on New York history. They were huge in bootlegging and were a reason for the laws during prohibition, which I believe the Belfiores were also involved with.”

I’d traced some of my family tree at a time. The Belfiores had their hands in government corruption.

“Some mafia suspicions,” Cassie continued and raised a brow. “But they left the life of crime and built a substantial shipping company. Which one are you talking to? Lorenzo? Gabriele? Luca?”

I kept my face blank.

“Rocco?” she shrieked.

“Who?” I acted surprised. But I knew Rocco. I met him that fateful night too. He came running up to get his grandfather….

“Grandpa, we mustn’t be late.” He was taller than me, older—I guessed college age. He was wearing the wool coat with a striped scarf that posh kids wore when I went to Mass. I could see the waves in his thick, black hair, even in the lamps. His eyes were a startling blue color, lighter than mine. His brows furrowed as he gaped. “Is this girl lost or something? She looks hurt. Should we get someone?”

My heartbeat quickened as he gazed over me. I remembered my battered face and my worn-out hoodie and oversized jeans I’d put on over my leggings.

I lowered my head and moved to walk off. “Goodbye, Mr. Marini.”

“You don’t need to leave, Adelina. My rude grandson, Rocco, is still learning his manners.”

“No, I’m…I’m fine,” I mumbled.

“You’re not,” Rocco said in a harsh tone. “You look terrible. Is your shelter in town? Do you need a ride—”

“Rocco, leave her alone,” Mr. Marini hissed. But Rocco didn’t. He took out his wallet and pulled out a wad of money, holding it out for me to take. “A Merry Christmas bonus.”

I winced and stepped back, the pain hitting me like a blow to the gut.

My skin burned and my insides shrunk remembering how I felt being offered money. Sure, I needed it, but he gave it so flippantly. Like I’d become a beggar you could throw charity at to feel better about yourself. Mr. Marini scolded him and tried to come to my defense, but in the end I had the last word.

“I’m fine, Mr. Marini, and I don’t need your money. You should go. You mustn’t be late, Grand Pa-Pa.” I mimicked Rocco’s voice.

Mr. Marini laughed, and Rocco scoffed. “You’re not funny.”

“Oh, but I am, rich boy,” I hissed.

Rocco had been hot when I first met him all those years ago at the beach, even if he had been rude and condescending. It hadn’t mattered as I’d doubted I’d ever see him again anyway. But now, he had somehow become outrageously gorgeous.

“You know which Marini I mean,” Cassidy said and smirked as she picked up her tablet. She started typing, but I already knew whose name she searched. Rocco Marini. Every woman who had exposure to any media had seen Rocco’s photo, as he was always included among the hottest celebrity heirs around. Mr. Marini shared an occasional update on his grandson, but I never asked for more. And the times I stayed at my grandparents, he wasn’t at his grandfather’s house next door. However, I knew he lived in New York City.

Cassidy turned the screen to me to see his images. Hollywood was known for its beautiful people, and Rocco had it in spades. He’d gone from being a business mogul to a producer of independent films and documentaries. And recently, he had been more in front of the cameras than behind them.

“Just look at the gorgeous women he has with him wherever he goes,” Cassidy said.

I was puzzled. When Mr. Marini talked about Rocco, he was worried he spent too much time by himself. Yet, he was often pictured with a pretty woman on his arm. However, no one was certain on who he dated since he’d somehow managed to keep his relationships private. The few that were known to the public didn’t seem to last.

“It looks like he has a type, though,” I murmured, but honestly it didn’t concern me. It was only his grandfather I cared about, and truthfully, Rocco seemed just as spoiled as Cassidy.

“A type? Yes, sophisticated women who will blend into his well-traveled, decadent life. That’s his type,” Cassidy answered. She let out a low whistle. “Damn, this guy has been some places and he’s going somewhere.” She wagged her brows, and I hit her lightly, laughing. She pointed out a few clubs on each coast, and some images from his eatery documentary in Europe and Asia.

“So, he’s traveled abroad, but not everywhere,” I pointed out. “He hasn’t been to outer space.”

She clicked on the second page, and a photo came up of Rocco in a space suit, floating in outer space.

My mouth dropped open. “No way.” I gripped the tablet and peered at the image. It can’t be real?

Cassidy laughed harder. “It’s a bad-fake, Lina, but with his big bucks, he can do whatever he wants. Gah.”

I laughed at her. Cassidy rarely fangirled anyone, but she wasn’t wrong. Social media often hyped-up people to get more clicks. Sure, Rocco was known for his business and films, but his family owned an empire. And the only reason he was photographed was because he was good-looking and wealthy.

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