Page 81 of King of Obsession

He fell silent, his brow furrowing in concern as his eyes raked over me.

‘Cleo?’ he growled. ‘Che cosa?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, forcing a bright note into my voice.

He didn’t believe me, and his eyes searched my face for the next few moments as we cleared the table.

At one point, I had to slick away the tears in my eyes, and he tagged it.

With a suck of his teeth, he prowled to the bookshelf.

His fingers danced over the spines of the books until he found what he was looking for.

‘Cleo, here.’

It was an order from a man unused to being disobeyed.

I went to him, eyes wide, as he patted the space on the couch beside him.

‘Sit.’

Heart raw, I did as ordered while he opened the tome in his hand.

‘You read books like these?’ I asked, shock tinging my voice.

‘I’m European and Italian. We were born with them in our hands.’

‘That’s my grandfather’s,’ I said, recognizing the title? Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy. ‘He highlighted his favorite excerpts and read them to me at night.’

‘So I shall do the same,’ Alessio drawled.

I raised a brow.

‘Hey?’ he growled, meeting my bemused gaze. ‘Can’t reconcile a rough as fuck rogue like me with classic literature?’

I shrugged with a slight smile.

‘The thing is, cara,’ he rumbled, ‘the modern mafioso doesn’t fight with only fists these days. He needs his witsand intelligence to stay alive and navigate a high-tech and fast-moving world. Books are like a whetstone, sharpening and keeping the intellect on guard. Now can I begin?’

I gave him a slight nod.

‘We climbed, he first and I behind, until though a small round opening ahead of us, I saw the lovely things the heavens hold, and we came out to see once more the stars.’

I curled my feet under me and leaned closer, enamored by the deep timbre of his accented intonation.

At first, his gesture threw me.

I couldn’t quite believe this burly, gruff, beautiful man was reading to me in the most poetic way possible.

His voice lulled me, comforted me, healed me.

Each word, like oil, was a balm to my troubled soul.

At one point, I found my head on his muscled shoulder, my hand creeping around his waist as he read on.

Eyes fluttering shut, I rested my weary spirit against the rock of Alessio’s bulk.

On fuckin’ hope itself.

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