Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare?
He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?”
Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest.
Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?”
Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?”
Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice.
I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me.
“What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question.
He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer.
When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.”
“I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.”
He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved.
“Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying.
He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me.
“We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow.
Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.”
“You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins.
I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now.
He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine.
Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me?
Or is this really a courtesy drop off?
I push the door open the second the car stops.
“Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.”
Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys.
No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is.
I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?”
Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.”
I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.”
He smirks and turns away without another word.
My hands shake as I work the key into the lock.
It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines.
One without Tacone.
Sondra
Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me.
My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress.
“Hey,” I mutter.
He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?”
There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs.