Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
My fake smile falters.
About to do? What does he mean?
And then I understand when he reaches into his jacket, and I see the glint of the gun before he even grasps it.
It all happens in slow motion.
I’m unsure what to do, but my body seems frozen.
I moved away from Italy all those years ago to remove myself from the violence that surrounded me.
And yet, after all these years, here it is. Standing in front of me.
Is he about to kill me?
Except his eyes are no longer on me, and his hand is now on his gun. There aren’t more than twenty people mingling in the back room of the restaurant connected to the hotel. I stare in horror as he pulls the gun from a holster. And before I can ask any questions, he shoots.
I flinch at the sound, and his gaze darts back to me. Someone screams—a lot of people do, actually—and he slides the gun back into the holster, that foreboding gaze impenetrable. And then he smirks—actually fucking smirks—with no care in the world for what he has done.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon, princess.” He turns and casually walks out, two men flanking him. My legs are shaking, and my heart is hammering, though I’d never let him see that. I wait until he’s gone before I dare look elsewhere, like being on high alert and watching a predator leave the vicinity.
What is Crue doing here in New York?
And who the fuck did he just shoot?
“Rya! Rya!” Monica grabs my arm with shaking hands. “We have to move. We have to go.”
He’s not coming back, though. Crue’s done what he needed to do, and now he’s gone. Before I can think better of it, I turn to my left, and that’s when I see a pair of boots just visible around the bottom hem of a tablecloth, and a pool of blood staining the floor.
My boss.
Dead.
And the man who has filled so many of my dreams over the years was the one who killed him.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 3
Crue
“Are you sure that was the right decision?” Dominic asks.
I crack my neck from side to side as I look at him. “Are you second-guessing my decision?” I raise a brow at him.
“No, of course not.” He twirls his wedding band around his finger. “But Angel wanted to see her.”
“Angel can see her, just not tonight,” I explain. Not that I fucking have to—he should know better—but Dominic loves to push my buttons.
“Do you plan to tell her that?” Dominic asks, looking over his shoulder to where Angel is throwing things around because she’s incredibly mad that we told her she had to stay back while we worked.
“Nope, she isn’t my wife.” I reach for the bottle of whiskey, and he shakes his head.
“Sometimes I hate you,” Dominic whispers.
“Good. I’m not here to make friends,” I remind him.
“I’m your fucking brother,” he growls.
“And? I’m not our father. You should know that.”
Dominic might have had a soft spot for our father, but if he knew why I’d really put a bullet in our father’s head, then he might not second-guess me. Not that I give a shit. I worked and killed to get to where I am so I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone. Blood or not.
“Well, maybe he isn’t so much of a devil as we all thought. Because you sure as shit are worse.”
“I take that as a compliment,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips. Reaching for my phone, I type up an email, with her name in the header.
Dear Miss Ricci
It was a pleasure to see you again tonight.
I hope you will soon accept an invitation to join me for dinner as an apology for ruining your birthday.
And please note, I never apologize.
At your earliest convenience.
Reply.
Crue
CHAPTER 4
Rya
I read the email, then re-read it again.
It can’t be real, right? No way.
I shake my head as I look up at the police officer who has been asking me questions for hours on end. He says something and then hands me a card. My once beautiful teal dress is now covered in dirt. Sitting on the sidewalk in New York city is not for the faint-hearted.
“Are you okay?” I look up at the question. Monica’s shoulders sag and the distant and empty stare tells me she is sad, which is very unlike her. But I suppose under the circumstances, it’s expected.
“If I’d have worn black, do you think this still would have happened?” I ask, causing her to smirk.
“Okay, next time, stick to the black.” She offers me her hand and pulls me up. I wipe my hands down my dress once I am on my feet.
“They say it’s a pretty open and shut case, or so I overheard them talking. Someone said they caught the guy, and nothing else will be happening.” When she says the words, I look down at my phone. Open and shut case, my ass. But if you have influence in your name, you can get away with murder these days. Especially him.