Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
"Leaving?" She gapes up at me. "Where are we going?"
"For now? My cabin," I say. "After that? We'll see."
The allure of the road is a powerful temptation for one who hasn't seen anything but her own prison for so long. She bounds off the bed, almost desperately eager. It's as fucking sad as it is cute. She's been locked up for nearly two years, trapped and listening to every vile thing they've done inside that house.
When I get my hands on Cillian, I may kill him for that alone.
Her hands hover over her bag. She turns her head, seeking me out over her shoulder. "This is from my closet."
"It is."
"You packed a bag for me?"
"Figured you'd need some things." I shrug like it's not a big deal. Evidently, it is to her, though. She looks like she wants to cry.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Get dressed." I nod toward the door across the room. "The bathroom is right there."
She scoops the bag up and flees toward the bathroom, her gorgeous ass swaying with every step. I watch the entire time, unable to take my eyes off of her. One day soon, I'm going to know exactly what that ass feels like wrapped around my cock.
One day very soon.
She slips inside the bathroom, closing the door.
I stride toward the closet to grab a few things I need. Guns, ammo, and a few more knives. You know, basic shit. I load it all into a duffle bag, open the safe, and pull out two stacks of cash. I add most to the bag and then stuff several thousand dollars in my wallet. I also roll a few more bills and put them in my sock. If we have to run, we'll have to ditch the car, my cards, everything. I need enough cash to make sure we can make it to my safehouse in Washington.
Once that's done, I toss clothes on top and zip the bag. When I turn around, Finley's standing outside the closet, watching me. She changed into a green sweater and skinny jeans that mold to her legs, making them seem miles long. I chose well because she looks fucking perfect.
"That's a lot of cash," she says quietly.
"Just a precaution."
"And the guns?"
"Also a precaution." I hook the bag over my shoulder, muttering a curse when the guns jostle together, making her scowl. "Are you ready?"
"You expect my uncle to come after me, don't you?"
"We'll talk about it on the way." I hold out my hand for her bag.
She reluctantly hands over the bag and then follows me out of the room. We don't speak as we make our way through the condo and out to the garage. She stops in her tracks when she sees the small incinerator in the corner.
"I don't burn bodies in it, mio sole," I murmur.
"But you burn something in it."
"Yes."
She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Come on." I hit the button on the keyfob, unlocking the doors to the Range Rover. Her brows rise, but she doesn't say anything as I help her into the passenger seat. Once she's settled, I put our bags in the back seat and then grab some shit from the shelves—blankets, flashlights, an emergency kit with food, water, and medical supplies.
I've been in the mafia for a long fucking time. If you're going to run, you better be prepared. There is no stopping once you start. I know the drill. If it comes to that…shit, I hope it doesn't come to that. But if it does, we'll be ready.
I load everything into the SUV, slam the door, and then climb in beside Finley.
She spends the first part of the drive gaping at the city around us. Rockford isn't nearly as large or as bustling as Chicago, but it has its own charm. Historic Victorian homes and buildings mingle with those built more recently, all nestled between scenic landscapes and forest preserves. For one who hasn't seen anything but a rundown mansion and her own family for almost two years, it's probably close to magical, especially in the early morning light.
We're a few miles out of town, the sun cresting the horizon, before she speaks.
"What do you burn in the incinerator?"
"My clothes."
"Why?"
"You know why, Finley," I say gently, not willing to lie to her about who I am and what I do. I won't pretend I'm something I'm not. She deserves honesty, at the very minimum.
She exhales a shuddering breath. "You kill people too."
I wish I could tell her no, but I can't. I lost count of the people I killed a long time ago. Their faces stopped haunting me over a decade ago. I am who I am. I've done what I've done. I can't take it back. I wouldn't even if I could. The sins I committed saved the lives of the people who matter. If that damns me to hell, I'll stand with my head held high on Judgment Day and accept my fate.