Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
My father has men that counsel him, that lend him advice on certain things. Romeo is my counsel. He keeps his distance from our dad, their relationship is toxic. Dad always wants more from Romeo, and Romeo is well… he’s a man with a heart. He has a conscience which a man in our position can’t have. There’s no room for feelings or second thoughts doing what we do and no matter how hard dad is on Romeo, he’s still merciful. That’s why I keep him by my side. However, those who don’t know him would say he’s the quietest man in the room when he’s around and they’d be right. Romeo is a mute as far as the public is concerned. Emotionally damaged and broken inside and out. I think I might be the only one who fully understands him.
“Ready to do a job?” I ask him. The smile that crosses his face is contagious, making me grin.
“Whose ride we taking?”
Leona
I politely smile at the auctioneer who is thanking me for my appearance, my right hand holding up my black sequined dress to keep it from trailing along the rough ground and tearing the threads. Not that I care, I’d rather be home in my sweatpants watching Netflix then be here bidding on art I can’t comprehend.
A black limo pulls up and my mom steps in front of me. Her hair pinned up with pearls, her dress matching. Though her bust could be a little tighter, her tits look like they’re about to fall out.
The driver opens the door and she slips in delicately. I have to remember to act like a lady and dip down, sit and then scoot over instead of just crawling onto the seat.
When the doors close, enveloping my mother and I back into our private lives, I pull out the pin holding my hair up, allowing my ink trundles falling free. A deep sigh reverting my body.
“I think that went well, don’t you?” Mother asks, still painted up out of character.
“You bought a goat sculpture for fifty thousand dollars,” I remind her. Her blue eyes narrow in my direction.
“Just because you come to these fancy auctions and throw money at charities, doesn’t mean people don’t still look at us like we’re criminals. Our last name is Bravado, and it always will be.” My tongue sharp, my words cut my mother open like a knife. She turns her head, her lips rolling onto one another. She wants out so bad, to not be what my father made us but we are the Bravados, we are criminals. We are the east side mafia. Even if my father ran out on us when I was just a child, leaving me the throne which I refuse to take… his murderous actions will always be remembered. Leaning forward, I grab a glass and a bottle of Chardonnay that was placed in ice. I fill it, drinking the whole glass in one gulp.
“Leona,” my mother hisses. My eyes pop over to her. So quaint and nearly killing herself to impress others, I swear she’s lost who she is. She used to be loud, aggressive, and funny. Until the papers followed our every move after my father left.
Until she became afraid.
Setting the glass down, my body rocks back and forth as we ride back to our large house sitting on the east side of Manhattan.
The limo stops at a stoplight and a commotion catches my eye. A salon my mother frequents often is on fire, the windows broke out, and chairs thrown out onto the curb. A man stands over another man with a bat relentlessly beating him. My heart pounds at the sight before me, and I open the car door. Climbing out bare foot, I run toward the scene.
“Stop!” I scream. Bat held above his head, the man looks my way and the breath is sucked from my lungs like the reaper just drifted over me taking my very soul. Handsome in a fit suit, but the rage of a thousand headless horsemen staring right at me.
“Kieran DeAngelo,” I whisper. He drops the bat and stares right at me. Heat from the rolling flames can be felt on my exposed arms and shoulders, my cheeks warm.
“Leona, get back in the car now!” my mother pleads, but I can’t take my eyes off of him. His dress shirt is rolled up showing his tattoos. His face sweaty, lips parted. He looks like a villain, yet completely beautiful.
The raging fire behind him illuminating just how callous he really is just dawning on me as I stand in the street in a cocktail dress with no shoes. Both of us silently staring at one another, imprinting one another into each other’s soul without even realizing it. Excitement blossoms in my chest and it scares me. Why aren’t I afraid? What if he comes after me?