Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 72308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
The guy finally returned fifteen minutes later. He gave a nod for me to follow him.
We moved through the tunnels, guided by the lit torches. Nooks in the walls showed piles of skulls, untouched for several lifetimes. The Catacombs underneath the streets of Paris were once open to the public, but Bartholomew managed to strike a deal with men in high places to claim it as his. The Parisian government was aware of its criminal purposes, but they looked the other way because the price was right. It was impressive because most criminals had to operate in the shadows.
The cavern started to open, and I found myself in an enormous room that housed hundreds of men, all sitting at tables drinking ale out of tankards. They all looked at me, all armed, their eyes like bullets.
I’d left my gun in the car, but I should have brought it since they didn’t check me. I doubted it was due to negligence. More like arrogance.
At the rear of the cavern was a throne made out of skulls. It seemed to have been cut from the wall and filed down into a chair. It didn’t look comfortable, but that didn’t stop Bartholomew from looking comfortable as he sat there, knees far apart, his arms on the armrests, his hands gripping the skulls at the very ends. He was in a black leather jacket and black jeans. His boots were military grade, the leather shiny. His dark eyes were pinpointed on me, watching me with a blank stare.
The room fell quiet, all the men ending their conversations to watch the exchange.
I approached the throne, seeing his face follow me the entire way. He didn’t blink. Just evaluated me with a stare that reminded me of the skulls he sat on. This place was more than a criminal organization. It was a cult.
I stopped in front of him, a bit annoyed this conversation would have so many witnesses.
Bartholomew kept up that indifferent gaze, maintaining the power by refusing to speak first.
“Can we speak in private?”
“You come to my home and make demands?” His voice was quiet and slightly restrained. “I may sit upon the throne, but we’re all one and the same. What you confide to me can be confided to those who surround you.”
A fucking cult. “Even if it pertains to your personal life?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Make your request and leave.”
Camille liked this guy? “I want to sublease the remainder of your contract with Camille.”
He was still as the stone that surrounded him, having no discernible reaction. “She doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Women aren’t complicated. Be honest with your intentions. Keep your word. Don’t fuck someone else. That’s all they want. Which means you violated one of those three rules.”
I had to keep the comeback locked tightly behind my jaw.
“Which one was it?” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes still wide open because he hadn’t blinked yet. “I don’t think you fucked someone else. Not when Camille is utterly stunning. No, that’s not it…”
This guy was fucking infuriating.
“Are you a liar? Men like us don’t like…so that’s probably not it.” His fingers brushed over the shadow of his jawline. “Which means you weren’t honest with your intentions. Yes…that sounds about right. You told her you wanted more—until you didn’t.”
I suspected Camille had confided all of this to him, and now he was fucking with me. “What’s your price?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then I’ll go first. Three million.”
He finally blinked, and when he did, he possessed a bored look. “I don’t have a price because she’s not for sale.”
Shit. “Five million.”
His fingers curled under his jaw, and he stared.
“Ten.”
He didn’t move. Now he blended into the throne.
“Fifteen.”
He didn’t seem remotely enticed.
“How about fifty?” No way he would say no to that. Fifty million dollars for nothing.
“As I already said, she’s not for sale. But please, continue listing off random numbers that don’t impress me.”
Fucking prick. “There must be something you want more than her.”
“She’s indispensable.”
What the fuck?
His hand returned to the skull at the edge of the armrest. “Our business has concluded.”
I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t sleep knowing this asshole was balls deep in my girl every night. He refused to sell her, and she liked him, and that meant it could get serious if I didn’t intervene. “Bartholomew, there has to be something I can do—”
“Leave.” Now his voice turned sinister, like the beast inside him had stirred. “I kindly listened to your request. I gave you an inch—don’t you dare ask for a mile. Leave now, and we part on good terms. Overstay your welcome, and you’ll be another skull upon this chair.”
It was raining.
Soaked to the bone, we stepped into the bar.
The bartender looked at us in disapproval but didn’t dare voice it.
Grave and I took a seat on the leather stools, our clothes heavy from being drenched. The scotch was poured and placed in front of us, and I slouched against the counter, utterly defeated.