Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
But I keep thinking about him, about his hands on my hips and his mouth against mine, his low laughter, the way he spreads my legs. I think of being with him, being with him for real—not for some short time, not for weeks or months, but years, an entire lifetime. Could I be the crime lord’s wife? Could I give him children and live in this world?
I don’t know. It scares me, but it also fascinates me.
The power and the drama, the terror and the excitement. There’s a special kind of loyalty I’ve never seen before in this Greek family, totally unlike the Pavone Famiglia.
With the Italians, they say all the right stuff, but the second things get hard, they turn their backs on you. Or worse, they turn their guns.
But Evander loves this organization, even if he seems to hate certain aspects. That devotion is intoxicating.
The door opens and I look over. A man steps out—one of Evander’s soldiers. He’s heavy-set with thinning hair, small eyes, and dark clothes. I don’t know his name, but he’s been hanging around the last few days. He’s one of the guys that keeps staring at me.
For a second, he only stands there, awkwardly shifting his weight like he’s not sure if he wants to run away or stick around. I don’t know what he wants, but I figure he’s here to make sure the lord’s wife is safe. I flash him a smile so he knows that everything is okay, he can go back inside, but he doesn’t smile back.
Instead, he draws a gun from his jacket and points it at my face.
“Get to your feet, you Italian bitch.”
I stare at him in shock. His voice is rough. He keeps glancing around like he’s afraid we’ll get caught. My heart starts racing, and I think about screaming—surely some of the men inside the diner are loyal to Evander—but the thug shoves the gun closer.
His hand is trembling.
It would be so easy for him to pull that trigger by mistake.
“I said, get the fuck up,” he snarls and grabs my arm.
“Let go of me,” I say, struggling, but he yanks me to my feet. “Let me go, you fucking asshole.”
“You wanna die, bitch? Right here in the alleyway? I don’t gotta bring you in alive, you stupid cunt, so shut your fucking mouth.” He seems nervous, almost scared, like this could go wrong.
“You don’t have to do this. You know Evander’s not going to let you get away with it.” My voice quavers. I’m terrified, barely holding it together. “You can let me go right now. We can walk away from this.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He smacks me in the face with the barrel of the gun. I stare at him in shock and taste blood where I bit my lip. “Get moving.” He drags me down the alley toward the street.
With distinct, intense clarity, I know what’s going to happen next. If I don’t do something right now, he’s going to shove me in a car, drive me far away, and I’ll never come back.
He’s going to kill me, shoot me in the face and dump my body in a ditch somewhere on the outskirts of the city in some fetid little wooded area where I won’t be discovered for a long time.
Evander will never know what happened to me.
If I do nothing, I’m dead.
“Let go of me,” I say and yank as hard as I can. “Help!” I scream. “Help me, someone, please!”
“You’re gonna get us both fucking killed,” the thug says and hits me again. This time, it stuns me, and I groan as I sag against him. I’m barely walking now, dragging my feet, and he’s forced to practically carry me, wheezing, grunting, and cursing the whole way. “You shoulda kept your fucking mouth shut.”
“Help,” I say weakly. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”
Tires scream up ahead. The thug says something in Greek I don’t understand. I look up, feeling groggy, something warm dripping down the side of my head. I blink rapidly and the car comes into focus. Someone’s sitting behind the wheel—
Christopher.
“Taking you back to where you belong,” the thug says. “Back to your fucking eye-talian husband. We’ll deal with Kazan ourselves, bitch.”
“No,” I say, feeling sluggish. I try to hit him, but the thug slams me against the car. Christopher’s watching, impassive, like he’s staring at a movie. “I won’t go. I don’t want to go.”
“Stop struggling,” the thug snaps and yanks open the door. “Get the fuck inside.”
I feel myself being pushed and pulled, and if I end up inside this car then I’m finished, Christopher will have me. I struggle with everything I have, thrashing and screaming. I bite the thug’s wrist and he hollers like an injured cat, rearing back. I ram my shoulder into his chest, staggering him, and we both fall to the pavement in a heap.