Heart of Stone - Stone and Fire #1 [17+] (REWRITING)

Chapter 8

i just realized in this new version her dad's name is Andre and not the driver.. blame it on my shitass memory 🤭🤭

so pretend the drivers name is Maximo from now on pls and thank u

Adriana's POV

"You sure the address was supposed to lead us here, Max?"

He stops unloading my bags, face as apathetic as ever no matter how much Papa raved about him being the 'only sensible man to ever set foot in the house'.

"I'm sure, Ms. Mancini. Unless the GPS was hacked."

"I could think of a few reasons why he'd do that just in spite of me." Maximo's black hair stuck to his neck, my own body soggy from the pouring rain that'd hit us on the way. The bone-chilling wind made it worse, and I suddenly wondered why women didn't have the magical capability of using muscle to block the cold; Max looked as if the strands stuck on his forehead were sodden with sweat instead of water.

I hummed away the thought. Fashion mattered far more than weather fluctuations.

My gaze raved over the Volkov mansion, wondering why the hell this man probably had six-figures worth of bills in ten various banks of NYC, and decidedly chose to buy a house in the most abandoned area I'd ever seen. Years of living here, and never have I came across such a concrete-ridden residence.

Maybe he likes the loneliness?

The thought reminds me how he never wanted this marriage in the first place. I was simply 'the most reasonable choice'.

Paths skated around a glass slated home, clad in dark-grey concrete and intertwining with strips of perfectly-trimmed grass. Or was is turf? I'd bet his obsession with 'perfect' only meant he went for the fake kind. The driveway we entered through lay ahead a set of black gates with the letter V engraved into each hilt, and a huge pool filled half of the courtyard. The closer I drew, the more I grew fascinated with the total perfection scribbled over each panel of black concrete and glass. Not one scratch on the tiny terracotta pots with almost-grey lilacs lining the strips of grass, not one crumble of dirt missing from it's square. Two empty terraces split the house in two symmetric sections, a black front door split in half along the line.

I'm sensing a theme here.

No color. Absolutely none. It was as if his grey personality had bled into the goddamn Earth. By the time my eyes had stopped wandering, I looked to see Max beckoning me to the front door where there was shade.

I blew out a deep breath. "No wonder he's obsessed with doing everything the right way. This place is straight out of a 1990 futuristic emblem."

Max pulls of his jacket and hands it to me, not quite meeting my eye. "Your shirt. It's wet."

I look down and bite back a rush of humiliation, grabbing the black leather with a grateful smile. "Thanks." I hold the jacket for a second longer. "For everything else, too. Really." My undying fidelity to him wasn't just because he took me anywhere I went, it was because he held onto the small scraps of loyalty for my father when other men didn't. We've had multiple head guards, cooks, you name it. Maximo's been the only driver ever since he was fifteen. You'd think he'd be six-feet under with a gaping hole in his head from Papa's pistol, but he's been going ten years strong. The leather jacket drapes around my shoulders and warmth seeps into my skin.

"Of course."

"I'll see you at the house, then."

He glances at the door, hesitating. "I can wait."