Page 23 of Triplets for the Mafia Prince

I glance up from my book, realizing several hours have passed. Worry gnaws at me as I remember Nic's condition. I should check on him, but I’m afraid of what I might find. I rise from the chair and head back to the room.

I’m relieved to see his chest rise and fall. I’m about to leave him when he mumbles something incoherent, his brow furrowed in discomfort.

I go to him, setting my book on the side table and then pressing my hand to his forehead, frowning at the heat still radiating from his skin. "You're still burning up. Here, let me get you some water."

After coaxing him to drink, he seems a bit more with it. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of you.”

“I mean when you’re not doing that.”

I hold up the book I’d set on the side table. “Reading.”

“Is it good?”

I shrug. “I like it.” It doesn’t strike me as something a fierce Mafia enforcer would enjoy.

“Read it to me.”

I arch a brow. “You want me to read to you?”

He nods.

I blow out a breath. “Alright.” I move to the other side of the bed, sitting on it with my back against the headboard.

As I delve into the world of the Dashwood sisters, I imagine Nic will drift back to sleep, but instead, he seems to grow more alert, even chuckling at some parts.

"Willoughby's a fucking douchebag.”

“Hard to argue that.” Although, unlike, say, Wickham inPride and Prejudice, I think Willoughby really loved Marianne, but he chose money and status over love.

“Edward isn’t any better. Fucking pussy.” His unexpected engagement with the story sparks my curiosity.

"What do you think about Colonel Brandon?"

“Boring and a putz for pining after a silly woman, but at least he’s not an asshole.”

“Do you think he’s better for Marianne? After all, he’s so much older than her.”

Nic studies me for a moment. “How old are they?”

“Marianne is around seventeen or so. He’s thirty-six.”

He frowns. “Seventeen? She’s not of age?—”

“Back then, people married younger.”

He studies me. “My father is older than that and you’re marrying him.” He shakes his head. “Fucking crime.”

I bite my lip, feeling suddenly defensive. "That's… that's different. My situation with Don Nardone isn't like a novel."

Nic's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing despite his weakened state. "Isn't it? A young woman marrying a much older man for security and status? Sounds familiar to me."

Now I’m angry. There’s something about his tone that is accusatory. Like he thinks I’m like Willoughby. “I see that even in your feverish state, you can be as much of an asshole as before.”

“Am I wrong? You’ve been raised in the lap of luxury and will marry into even more wealth.”

Why is he turning on me like this? Not long ago, he was calling me an angel.

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