Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Chuckling, I shake my head at his passion. Once, long ago, that was me. When they took my father’s life, and my brother sided with them instead of his blood. That’s why Darius and I no longer see eye to eye. He believed their lies about our father, and I, being the eldest son, took on the responsibility left to me. “You’ll get him. My men won’t step on any toes. I can assure you of that, Carnevali.”
“Good. I’m flying home tonight. I may have to visit Heaven for an evening of decadent play before I get back to LA.” I can hear the smile in his voice. The temptation of spending a few hours in my club’s exclusive back rooms has become a staple to most Made Men in this city.
“I’m not in New York for another few days, but when you’re at JFK, let me know. I’ll have one of my cars collect you and bring you straight to the club. You can have a quiet evening, or you can choose any one of the women who are regulars.”
“Only one?” He laughs, and I realize he’s always been one to partake in a ménage scene, or even three women, with him enjoying the spoils.
“Well, you know you’re welcome to anything in any one of my clubs.” Pushing to my feet, I grab my jacket, realizing the time. “I have to head out. Important meeting tonight, and I can’t be late.”
“Of course. See you soon,” Alex tells me before hanging up, leaving me to my thoughts of this evening’s festivities. Pocketing my cell phone, I grab my keys and wallet before leaving the office, locking the door behind me. When I reach the club floor, I find Sawyer, one of the men working with Kahn.
The tall, ex-marine has been with me for almost five years, learning the ins and outs of the underground export business the Shaw name runs. When I took over from my father, I knew I needed men I could trust.
“Mr. Shaw,” he greets when I near him as he settles himself on a stool at the bar. The club isn’t busy, a handful of clients have made themselves comfortable in the booths, and the sleek, silver bar, which curves like a horseshoe, is empty but for Sawyer.
“I’m heading back to Crimson Falls,” I tell him. “Can you stay to close up?”
He nods. “Of course.” There’s a rigidness to him, cold, closed off, and I wonder briefly if he’s ever had the love of a woman. He doesn’t play in the club, he’s never mentioned coming home from Iraq to anyone, and when we’ve spent time together in meetings with the team, his focus has been laser sharp no matter which of the women I employ would stroll in, needing something from me.
“Good.” I move past him, making my way to the garage where my shiny, raven-colored Cadillac Escalade waits. I settle back in the driver’s seat as I start the engine, and the speakers play a soft melody. The gentle voice of Ruelle comes through as she sings “Find You” and I can’t help but smile.
It’s time to meet my future wife. Only, she doesn’t know about me. She doesn’t realize her life is about to change.
The streets are busy for this late, but I glide through the city as I take the highway out to Seattle’s northern suburbs, where Bardot lives with his family. A man with the means to live anywhere in the world, but he chooses my city. As much as I love the Big Apple, it’s only one of many venues I consider elite. Seattle has taken my heart and allowed me to play when I need to without having to form long-term connections with women.
But Horatio is one of the reasons I haven’t left Seattle yet. He knew what he was doing when he bought the house just outside the bustling metropolis. The fact that my father trusted him angers me. The fact that he took from me only infuriates me further. The money he took hardly made a dent in my fortune; however, when someone takes something of mine, I believe it’s only fair to claim something of theirs in repayment.
I’m pulling up to the Bardot mansion's wrought iron gates when my phone rings through the speakers. “Yes?” I answer, knowing it’s Kahn calling with news, and by the time the car winds up the long, paved driveway leading to a three-story house, my focus is on my eagerness to meet Scarlett Bardot.
“I stumbled upon something you might want to know before you walk into the Bardot house tonight,” he tells me, his voice tense, the clipped tone of his words warning me that I’m not going to like the outcome of his investigations.
Hitting the brakes, I say, “Tell me everything.”