Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
The man pulls away from her, and I can finally see his face.
He’s handsome. He’s also Asian.
The conversation has taken a turn. Soon the man gets down into Ling’s face and shouts at her, his gorgeous face contorted in rage. He grips her upper arms and shakes her like a ragdoll.
Oh no.
I watch Ling closely.
I’ve seen that shuttered look on her before. It’s the same look I received after I broke her nose.
He shouldn’t have done that.
She jerks his hands off her, and before the man knows what’s hit him, Ling reaches under her skirt, flips open the butterfly switchblade, rears back and stabs him, pinning him to the wall by a knife through his palm. His roar echoes over the top of the music, or maybe I’ve just imagined it.
Mouth parted in shock, I move to stand, but she’s already walking away, and by the time she reaches me, I’m up and following her without prompting. She only pauses for a moment to tip back her glass and finish her drink in one swallow.
We exit the club and enter the car. As we pull out onto the street, Ling utters clinically, “Wasn’t that fun?”
I don’t answer. In truth, it doesn’t sound much like a question, let alone a question one should answer.
Blinking into the street, she mutters a quiet, “Yeah. That was fun.”
Surrounded by laughing men letting loose with their drinks, I lean back in my chair and cradle my icy tumbler of straight up ouzo.
Half-naked women hang off members of the many firms. To the side of the room, one of the guys graciously accepts a blow job that one of the broads has offered. Another bout of laughter takes over the men, and it irritates me to no end. Men in my world don’t laugh often. We meet once quarterly to talk a whole hour of business then dedicate the rest of the evening to shooting the shit.
I don’t want to be here tonight.
I’m agitated, unable to concentrate, because my main focus is currently sleeping in my bedroom, curled up in my bed. The fact is that I’m away from Alejandra, and that makes me uneasy.
I wonder if she’s all right.
My lip curls at a thought.
If Ling fucks with her, goddamn it, I’ll make her sorry.
How I wish I could just up and leave these cocky fucks to their own little party. But you don’t just leave one of these gatherings. That would be disrespectful, and I have seen men killed for less. You disrespect one of these men, and you leave in a body bag.
For years, we have met on the first of every January, April, July and October to discuss what has been happening in our respective worlds. Around the time these firms of dangerous men united, many of the gangs were at war with each other. Times have changed. War was not productive. The men decided a treaty was necessary, and as long as no purposely directed offense was given—otherwise known as “throwing shade”—then all was well in the underground.
Men who threw shade around here never lasted long. It only took a few months between the introduction of someone new, thinking they were hot as hell, believing they knew better than the rest of us, and wanting us to grovel at their feet. Then, suddenly, they were gone.
Never to be seen again.
Cocky assholes were okay as long as they kept it on a leash, but you never dishonored your brethren, which, in some unlikely way, we all were.
While Marcos Demitriou gets his dick sucked, the conversation turns subdued.
Aslan Sadik, a Turk of The Lost Boys, puts the lit cigar to his lips and puffs lightly, exhaling the thick smoke around him. “You all hear about what happened to Baris?”
Silence ensues. Even Marcos stills, gently pushing away the kneeling woman who is all tits and fat lips. She pouts and he tucks himself into his pants before gently caressing her cheek, moving to rejoin the men.
All eyes are on Aslan and, so fucking typical of the Turk, he loves the attention. He inhales deeply, speaking through his exhale. “Fucking cops got him. Knew where his safe house was. Found it all. Most of his men are dead. Those who aren’t are just waiting for the moment to hang themselves.” He looks around the room. “Heard one of his men already did, with the sheet from his hospital bed.” He mimes a noose being pulled around his neck. “It’s all over. There’s no recovering from that. He has lost everything.”
The heavy accent of Titus Okoye, Liberian arms dealer, sounds into the silence. “How?” he asks, his dark face quizzical. “How did they find him?”
Aslan doesn’t respond, simply looks around the room at the people around him with clear interest.
Polar opposite of Titus, Lars Odegard of the Norwegian Pelt, looks his slender, pale face down at Aslan, his light blue eyes skeptical. “If I’m hearing correct, there is a note of accusation in your tone, Aslan.” At the clear statement, Aslan shrugs, his brows raised in mock innocence, and Lars runs a hand through his white-blond hair, looking as though he would love to throw his tumbler right in the center of Aslan’s forehead, leaving him a bloody mess.