The Machiavellian Prince by Bella Di Corte EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Bella Di Corte
- Language: English
- Genre: Billionaire Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Saverio
We were the rulers of the world. Side by side, my father and I reigned
over the kingdoms we called our lives. To become the man—the
king of wolves—that he raised me to be, my actions had to speak
louder than words. He taught me that a strong ruler understands that words
are worthless unless a man stands behind them, and that, even though life
isn’t a game, it still has to be won.
Or more precisely, a heart has to be won. For a heart to surrender, a man
has to speak a secret language, and the name of that language is love,
followed by action.
I spoke the language fluently, but the ballerina who hid her heart behind
frilly fabric constantly pretended that she had no idea what I was saying to
her.
Had been saying to her.
Since we were kids.
She was like one of those people who sat in a room full of other people
who spoke a language they thought she didn’t understand—until she opened
her mouth and joined the conversation.
If she thought she was fooling me, she was fucking wrong. She should
have known better. She was the one who had taught me how to speak the
language and win her heart. And if there was one thing she guarded
ferociously, it was that thing beating in her chest.
She. Mia Bellarosa Fausti.
Yeah, her father couldn’t have given her a more perfect name. Mia. It
meant mine in Italian. And that’s exactly what she was.
She belonged to me. Always had. Always will.
My heart beat faster as I counted down the seconds in my head…
5
4
3
2
1
The lights faded, the audience silenced, the curtain went up, and the
music started to drift from the orchestra close to the stage.
It was soft. A caress that lingered on the skin and made goosebumps
rise on my arms. More than the tone of the music, it was the anticipation of
her that made me feel flighty and rooted at the same time. The woman who
the world of dance called “The dancing Ghost,” because she was as ethereal
as an apparition on the dance floor when she moved, was about to reveal
herself to me.
Soul. Heart. Bones. Skin.
She’d come to life before my eyes because she could feel me out in the
audience—when I said she belonged to me, I fucking meant it. The heart
that beat inside her chest was mine. It pulsed with the sound of music
because she breathed.
Collectively, the audience seemed to hold its breath as she gracefully
made her way onto the stage. She wore a crown on her head and a frilly
outfit on her body.
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