Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I duck beneath the next throwing knife, gripped in the man’s hand, pitching him over my shoulder.
“No more knives for you, cunt,” I hiss, clobbering my knee into his spleen as he crawls away. Every muscle in his body fails him. He lays face down. Capturing his skull in my hands, I bash the man’s head into the asphalt. One thud. Two. A jerk to finish him off.
In the backseat of a cab, I ring Bobby George Inc. and am auto dispatched to Milton, the bloke on duty. Milton advises Luxury arrived by Uber moments ago, and I order him to get backup. Next, I dial Burt, and in a subdued voice, I give him a code of where to find the bodies, which I’d dragged beneath the bridge.
“Stop here,” I order the cab driver, a block away from the Whitsons’ flat. As I get out, my mobile pings in my palm. A gelid gust whispers along the nape of my neck as I read Luxury’s message: Never. Call. Again.
That’s bloody absurd.
I find myself one with the night, melding into the darkness and avoiding the streetlamps. Neither Milton nor the backup he promised are in the vicinity when I silently allow myself in the front door. Milton and his consorts have probably fallen prey to my bloody opposition. Instead of rounding up Luxury and her father, the chit’s text lures me.
What the bloody fuck?
Luxury’s molded me into an emotional wreck.
I’ve dispensed passion beyond her wildest dreams, and my only request is her absolute devotion. A worthy barter as far as I’m concerned.
Oh, my sweet Luxury, I mutter, switching off all the lights but one in her room as the sound of her shower drones in the background. I’m in a bloody dark space here. She created this. I scorned Burt’s pitch that I marry Princess Noor. I couldn’t fathom the extra baggage in my life. Only Maddy, because our individual lives could continue per the norm. But here I am, attending to my impudent Little One.
“Bullocks, Luxury,” I say upon setting my eyes on the lovely chit. Fog slithers from the lavatory, whisps caressing everywhere my hands requisitioned. “Everything went balls up. It’s not what it seems.”
“What part of us screwing in Central Park, less than an hour ago, followed by you murdering random strangers is not what it seems! I texted you—”
An exorbitant amount of venom backs my tone as I snarl, “Never to call?” I collect myself, trying again. “You’re in shock. That’s to be expected—”
As Luxury affirms how I’ve botched what we have, I cannot bloody think straight. Instead of adhering to the life-or-death situation, I stumble into her fucking trap. I make me the problem.
“Allow me to remind you, Luxury, you and I are under a binding agreement—I own you.”
Half-listening as she says something, I’m about to promise always to protect her when she rounds on bare soles and dashes through the door. I scrub my hands over my face and tell myself to address her disappointment later. Alright, Vic, everything’s balls up! You’ve a gun and no bloody bullets.
I stalk out of the bedroom, starting down the landing. “Luxury, listen to every word I tell you.”
At the bottom of the steps, wisps of curly hair fly in Luxury’s face as she denies to her father that she allowed me to enter. Aggravated, I disclose my choice of entry. As Whitson begins to threaten me with authorities, I catch sight of a Vortex Optics sniper scope. An explosive sound wrenches through the air. Glass ruptures inward, showering in our direction. I surge toward Luxury, capturing her trembling, frenzied body beneath me.
Leveraging myself on my forearms, I order, “Get down, Dr. Whitson!”
As Whitson wedges himself behind a chair, my eyes lock onto the incredible treasure I’ve claimed for myself. “Lux, right now, I need you to be that cheeky, confident young woman I first met. No fear.”
In the midst of her father’s assassination attempt, Luxury’s courage renews. She meets my unwavering gaze, offering a resolute nod.
Whitson crawls toward the front door, resulting in less visual access.
I won’t have my Little One chance it.
“Whitson, where’s your gun?”
Voice labored, he grimaces out, “Right there, in the side pocket of my recliner.”
Army shuffling over, I reach into the holder. I check the chamber of a Smith and Wesson handgun and drop it into my suit jacket. I crawl around to the window. As I go, I grab an eyeshadow palette from the coffee table.
Where the bloody hell are Bobby George’s people? I fucked up majorly going straight to Luxury. Spine against the brick wall, I flip open the compact. Slowly, I lift the mirror to the large window above. Through the mirror’s reflection, I search the sniper’s location.
Bingo.
Another .50 caliber bursts through the window. The bullet would’ve taken my bloody hand off. I crawl exactly two feet to the left, lift my gun, and shoot. I crawl another four feet back in the opposite direction to have a safe place to confirm the target is down. Through the reflection, a hitman’s body slumps over the side of the opposite building.