Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“You tell me.”
“Something…”
He pauses, and my mind fills in everything he might say.
Something to bring us the future we both need. Something that will make us happy forever.
“I can’t seem to fight it.” He steps away from me. “But I have to try. We both have to.”
I almost snap, Fine, then stop visiting my room, but I don’t want him to stop. I can’t keep letting him play me, either.
“I’m happy to try,” I say.
I lie because I’m not happy about any of this.
“But that will mean no more surprise visits. Do you think you can handle that?”
I immediately feel bad for my aggression, or sassiness, as he would call it. He doesn’t respond with a smirk or a fierce comment. He stares desolately as if the world’s ending, and it is—our world that didn’t exist until yesterday.
“I don’t know. It’s hard.”
With that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him. I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leo
“Staying at the apartment again, sir?” Francesco, my longtime driver, asks me.
He smiles at me from the rearview, with no malice in the question. Yet I can’t help but feel like there’s an implication in his voice. That’s bullshit. He’s never been like that. He’s always been loyal.
“Yes,” I tell him.
It’s the third night in a row. So far, it’s the only way I can figure out how to stay clear of Emma, not to be pulled into her vortex. Every night I’ve spent away from her has been torture. It’s been an insane effort to resist the urge to dart across the city, to find her curvy body and spank her repeatedly. In my dreams, I remember how her perfect curvy figure rippled for me. That sweet ass won’t leave my dreams alone.
That’s what I said to her. Just a dream, but it’s so much more than that. Last night, Rosa asked if she was the reason I was staying away.
“Are you mad at me for bringing Emma here?” she asked.
There’s no way for me to explain my mixed feelings to my daughter or outline the combination of gratitude and regret. I could never hate my daughter, but it’s true. She brought Emma into my life. She triggered this obsession.
“No,” I told her. “It’s business.”
“The w-war?” she said.
Her voice had that telltale note of fear, which reminded me of Matvei. Matt. The man I’ve never been able to find. I’ve got his description: Russian, tall, wide-shouldered, almost completely bald, muscled, and tattooed all over his neck and arms. Rosa saw him as some intellectual, a dangerous fling with the wild side. Thank God she escaped.
I felt like a failure as a father, but striking the right balance is difficult. She says she needs her freedom and then ends up with scum like him.
My cell phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts. Francesco puts up the divider without me needing to ask.
“Leo.” Dario’s panting heavily. “You’ve got to get here now.”
Something ugly tightens in my stomach. For a moment, I entertain the insane notion that this is somehow related to my woman, my Emma. Somehow, Dario has learned about something happening to Emma, even though I told Eddie to call me if there were any problems. So far, none. She’s got nowhere to run.
“Leo?”
I focus, but it’s hard. My thoughts are clouded, consumed with my woman.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Fyodor,” Dario says. “Bastard showed up at Edonismo. At least, the man’s claiming to be Fyodor. He started a fight with the doorman. He’s drunk.”
“That doesn’t sound like the leader of the Bratva.”
“The man says his name is Fyodor. I’ve got him in the basement now.”
The basement… Exactly where my woman is, though her basement is far more hospitable than the room my brother is referring to.
“Dario, think. Fyodor isn’t going to show up alone and start a brawl.”
“Then why is he saying he’s Fyodor? Who would be insane enough to walk into our club and claim to be the man we want dead?”
I sigh. “I’m coming.”
Pressing the button that lowers the partition, I tell Francesco we must change directions.
Immediately, my suspicion peaks.
The man sitting in the harsh glare of the overhead light is tall, wide-shouldered, almost completely bald, muscled, and tattooed all over his neck and arms. He matches the description of Matvei.
Dario and a few other of our men stand in a circle around the man supposedly called Fyodor, but he doesn’t seem fazed. Even with a bloody lip, he has a hazy smile, almost like he’s high, but his eyes are too lucid. He’s wearing a tank top, showing his muscles. I wonder how many it took to get him down here. Or maybe just Dario, if he was pissed off enough.
“Matvei,” I say, watching for his reaction.
Not a flinch. Not a scared moment of recognition. He just smiles. “One of my many names, yes.”