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 appreciate anonymity. That’s how I live much of my life as a royal bastard. Well, I’m not a bastard in the conventional sense of the name, though I pride myself on epitomizing one.
I stare at the image of a man with a receding hairline and freckles. “Who wants you dead, Dr. Jonah Whitson?”
There’s no challenge behind his eyes. I could attempt another world record. Follow him, gauge the perfect location to murder him from a radius of three miles. The inventor’s locale provides an abundance of prime positions, which deters me.
Too easy. Too bloody quick. It all takes me closer to Arlington.
Burt speaks up. “Victor, we aren't leaving Dubai until you propose marriage to the Shei—”
“Marry the Sheikh?” Though my attention is still fully immersed with each kill, fucking with Burt has its appeals too. “Hmmm?” I consider the timeframe of each. Assassinate the Black doctor in the United States, then back to London for the prophet.
While I strategize, Burt hisses, “You know what I mean, Victor! Ask for his daughter’s hand.”
“Come off it, Burt. That tosser’s unaware of my identity. For all intents and purposes, I’m a ghost.” The Arab that I murdered a few days ago was a simple mark. The Sheikh has more than a stronghold in the region. However, murdering one’s own family doesn’t sit right by him, so he hired X-Member. I took the assignment and neutralized the financial advisor, who was also the Sheikh’s brother-in-law.
“Our finances put us in a semi-reputable state,” Burt suggests. I have billions. The royal family has much more.
But I doubt the Sheikh will bestow his daughter as a gift to a wanker who does not need a possession with a heartbeat. Trinkets that breathe air are a waste of my time, and you must lug them about. There simply isn’t enough time to inconvenience myself. My royal duties are completed via phone conference, and my Tudor Enterprise business meetings are held virtually.
“Burt The Butler, inhale . . . exhale.” I gesture toward my diaphragm, finally putting the tablet on the statue’s ledge beside me. “I’m not marrying Noor. America is best. What if this prophet is the real deal? Who am I to murder the Messiah?”
“Oh, you’re having a laugh? You’ve gotten yourself into a mess, Victor. Of all your hobbies and devices, this is the only one you pursue daily. God forbid you sought a new diversion?” Burt continues to babble. “You murder for the cost of fueling your private jet.”
“Good idea. We’ll ride first class.” I pat his shoulder.
“Commercial? Good idea, eh?” Stumped, Burt closes his mouth.
“I’ll take you to the Met or a couple of museums. Burt, you choose. Once I neutralize Dr. Whitson, we’ll return home.” At the mention of my estate in Arlington, Burt’s momentarily placated. I accept the United States assignment, press the button for self-destruct, and drop the tablet into a colorful clay pot.
Poof. The sound resonates against the walls as Burt mumbles about retirement. I retreat to the room I've shared with Noor’s harem this past weekend.
Noor’s pink lips catch a strawberry another woman holds up between her teeth. “Vic,” she says teasingly and lovingly, recalling how I placed berries in her pussy, got her off, and had her eat them. I’d made her tell me how good it tasted, enticing yet another woman to eat her out. Noor had yet to convince me to reciprocate.
Tucking my hands into my pants, I stand, legs wide. My steely tone has no room for misinterpretation. “I release you, Noor.”
She looks at my ruthless scowl. How do I treasure one of you when I have infinite choices? Shite, you offered all your precious treasures to me.
Noor’s eyes harden while her astonished maidens hide from her embarrassment. The women who preceded Noor never saw it coming either, same as the beautiful women who will, no doubt, follow. They’re always edgier once our time is up. It’s as if they feel betrayed while I feel nothing.
3
LUXURY
Day One
A numbness—the emotion that’s second nature to me—always possesses me at first light, after I’ve relived the nightmare of returning home to find Gina lying in a sea of her own blood.
Thirteen months later, my mother’s assailant is still at large. Hope eviscerated; I’ve created a steely cocoon around my heart. The tough exterior crumples when I arrive at the flower shop, though, which I purchased in remembrance of her.
I autopilot through my day, rebuilding my armor, then go home and read or watch old reruns with my father in our shared apartment.
The cycle repeats itself.
Every night the same dream.
Every morning a broken heart morphs into titanium. By midday, I’m a friggen survivor.
“Breathe in joy, bliss, and happiness.” Continuing the cycle, I pep myself up each morning with the same old lies. My peach dress fans against my ankles as I inhale the floral scent of my flower shop, Urban Garden. Walking inside, I put the keys to the shop in my rust-colored apron pocket. The place’s so tiny, we—one staff member and I—run inside and determine what’s needed if it's not already in flowerpots by the entryway. After squeezing past bushels of daisies and cinnamon pinecones, I open the drapes.