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)
“If we hadn’t met.” I plead with him, stopping short of going to him as I croak out, “No more Dad? I got lucky? You saved me, Victor Tudor. How much? Oh, my God, five hundred thousand pounds.” Hands clamor over my mouth. “That’s what you were arguing about.”
His head dips, then he gives a swift nod.
“Dr. Jonah Whitson was worth five hundred thousand pounds?”
“That’s irrelevant!”
“Say it. Please say that a human’s life was worth . . .” I prompt, wrenching the lapel of his suit beneath my fingers.
Jaw unmalleable, Victor grits, “It’s a five hundred-thousand-pound assignment. Nothing more.”
“Assignment?” My eyes look out toward the authoritative person seated right outside the door. “An assignment because you’ve got the riches of Solomon, and your wealth bores you.”
“That’s not it,” he grouses.
“You got bored, saw me, and thought, ‘Hmmm, I’ll have more fun dodging bullets instead of sitting like a coward behind a sniper rifle.’ Did you spend all the money on Bobby George’s team?”
“You’re spouting rubbish, Luxury. I hired George’s team as a precautionary measure.”
“Awe, man, I was working my brain.” I hold my hands up as if moving the gears in my mind. “Imagining the sick, deviant charms of having more assassins to fight instead of murdering one, short, genius of a man. How does one’s life become an assignment? How does—”
“Luxury, please listen.” Victor clasps my hands, bringing them to his lips. My body reacts, heart falling prey to an accelerated tempo. Sharp tingles draw over my flesh—every fiber of my being’s traitor to sagacity. I yank my hand away, snaking my fingers underneath into tiny fists at my side.
“No, there’s nothing you can say. So, thank you.” I call upon the last atom of self-preservation inside of me. The apathy I sought after Momma’s death takes over me, smoothing out my features.
“Thank you for sparing my father. Detective Caruso’s heard of Bobby . . . whatever. Bobby’s legit, the only friggen truth between us. The guy last night, who took down two assassins, that’s okay in my book. They can stay and keep my father safe. You can kick rocks. I hate you, Victor Tudor.” I spit those words out like fire and swipe the last fallen tear.
“Please, I care so much about you, Lux.” His sapphire eyes tug at my heartstrings.
Care. The wrong motherfucking four-letter word.
“Farewell.” I step closer to my dad’s bed.
“Luxury, if only you understood.”
Hurt swells in my soul as I mumble, “I’m all out of chances, Vic. I will never call you, see you, or talk to you. You’ll never be forgiven in my book.”
Victor pauses at the door, placing the side of his fist against the frame. “When you’re ready, Luxury, ring me. Bloody curse me, just call. I will answer any time of the day.”
“I never will.” I shake my head.
“At least, allow me to explain fully. It’s too much now, all at once,” Victor looks over at my father then at me. “I’ll tell you who murdered your mother once you’ve had time to digest this.”
“Don’t fucking go there.” The oxygen I tug into my lungs hardly fits. I attempt another anxious inhale. Futile. Anger, strife, and rage grapple for power over me.
“I let you in.” I touch my chest, which is raggedly clawing for air. “I told you things about me I would never tell anybody else. My mother and me. I fucking let you into all of that. You bring her up now? You manipulative son of a bitch.”
My heart quickens as Victor takes my shoulders. The very feel of his hands is repulsive. How could I not sense Victor the same as I had with the Russian? I’m staring at the devil, beguiled by all his glory.
“Luxury, listen to me,” Victor implores. “I promise to tell you all about your mother’s death and your father’s botched assassination attempt.”
“Promises are no good.” These are my last words to Victor before he is out of my life. I turn my back on him.
My brain hopes he’s vanished for good. My heart, in contrast, still won’t see reason. If I could, I’d pull the pathetic muscle straight out of my chest. What has love ever done for me anyway?
41
VICTOR
The Learjet hums quietly on the tarmac. Burt’s at the bottom of the steps, fatigued face unreadable. He needs a bloody holiday, me too. But if I tell him that a tropical oasis is our next destination, he may keel over. At least in my case, I’ve been a dead wanka walking for over a decade.
“Fuck!” I shout. The sides of my fist smash the roof of the car. I dent the driver’s side door with my boot while fixating on Luxury, Dr. Whitson, and Dr. Charles Everhart.
Lux loathes me.
Jonah Whitson will survive, although I’m to blame that Luxury had to shed another tear.