Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
The thought of running my lips across that soft skin sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
Cristo. She's a work of art.
"It's fine," I reply, my voice a low rumble.
For a moment, we're statues amongst the revelry, her smile a fucking siren's song rooting me in place. She's sunlight, casting her warm rays over the pitch black of my soul without even flinching.
"Watch your step," I caution, more to myself than to her, a whisper of warning that this world—and men like me—weren't meant for angels like her.
Her gray eyes widen as they skirt down my body, taking me in. I know what people see when they look at me. I'm nearly seven feet tall and built like a brick wall. I'm imposing. Precisely the way I like it.
People respect what they fear. They fear me on sight—though most can't say why. It's survival instinct, whispering from the deepest parts of their subconscious. They recognize a monster when they see one. They know death when it stares back.
But does this sweet little thing see the monster—the one who kills without remorse or empathy? Or does she see the man—the one I've almost forgotten how to be?
I want it to be the latter.
It's a foreign desire, bubbling up from some soft place inside that I didn't know existed.
"I'm glad I'm not the only rebel here tonight," she finally says, a sweet smile tugging at her lips. "I was beginning to worry I'd overplayed my hand."
"Rebel?" I raise an eyebrow at her comment, the word hanging heavy in the air between us. It's almost laughable coming from her—this sweet, innocent little thing with no idea how deep into rebellion I am and how far past redemption I've traveled.
Not even the deepest pits of hell were designed for men like me.
Her blush deepens. She's clearly unaware of how fucking hard it makes me, or she'd stop immediately. She'd flee into the night, screaming in terror.
I want to trace the edge of it with my tongue. Preferably while she's riding my cock.
"Yes," she whispers, nervously tugging at the fabric of her dress as if willing it to cover more of her skin. My fingers itch to trace every exposed inch before they wrap themselves around Alessepo's throat. "We're the only two not in blue."
I glance down at my black suit, confirming her assessment. Rebels, indeed. I know why I'm not in blue—I'm not a fucking cop. I doubt she is, either. She doesn't look much older than nineteen or twenty…too young to be in uniform.
So, who is she? And why did she decide on siren red instead of boring blue? What authority is she rebelling against?
I suddenly want to know.
"Dance with me." I don't ask. I demand, knowing damn well that if I give her an option, it might not be me. I don't want that, so I don't allow it.
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip before she smiles up at me. "Gladly."
I lead her onto the dance floor, not speaking. Her body molds against mine as I pull her into my arms and begin to move to the rhythm, keeping her close to me.
My erection presses against her belly. There's no hiding it as her intoxicating vanilla scent swirls around me, clouding my head. Cazzo. She smells incredible. The pulse beneath her ear flutters, letting me know she feels how hard I am.
Good. Let her.
She's the reason I'm in this state.
I fight the urge to bend my head and taste her fluttering pulse.
"What's your name?" she asks, her voice shaking.
"Coda Passero."
"Coda," she repeats, licking her lips as she stares up at me. "I'm Karina Alessepo."
Fucking hell. She's his daughter. I knew he had a kid, but I've never seen her before. I made a point not to go looking. The less I knew about the kid, the better. It's a lot harder to kill a man when you know who they're leaving behind.
Those are the people who haunt you if you let them. Not the dead, but the living. They're the ones who plague your mind. The dead are easy to forget. A single bullet and they cease to exist. But the living? They're still out there, still walking around, still trying to pick up the pieces you shattered.
I never let myself think about them. As far as I'm concerned, they don't exist. Except one of them is in my arms right now, smiling up at me like I'm something special.
Fuck.
"Thank you for being brave enough to dance with me. No one else was." She rolls her eyes. "They're all afraid of my father."
"Cowards," I grunt, my mind racing. I need to shut this down now and walk away before I get any deeper with her. I don't need to know anything else about her. But my goddamn traitorous hands pull her closer instead. My fucking mouth betrays me. "If they're too afraid to ask, they don't deserve to dance with you, cara."