Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
The piles of money never gave me a hard on, it was the win. Manipulating people and reading them before they even knew what was happening. It was a rush, but not anymore. The only last micro-thread tying me here is this glimpse of a girl I caught when I dropped off a barely breathing little matted Maltese to my private contact at the Vegas animal shelter could weeks back.
I was focused on saving the dog when I caught sight of the back of one of the workers. Fairy tale ice queen blonde hair hanging down her back, nearly touching her fucking ass.
Jesus, that ass. It went on for daaaays and I wanted to bury my cock in it and never come back out. I haven’t stopped jerking off thinking about her since, which for me is way out of the fucking ordinary, especially since I never even saw her face.
Fucking weird.
But, I had to focus on the dog and get back to the owner I left chained to a pipe waiting for karma to come calling.
Hi, it’s me. I’m karma.
Outside of my work, my only hobby is quietly saving dogs that got the shit end of the stick in one way or the other, and then ending the fucking miserable lives of the ones that harmed them. Other guys play golf, I do this. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a feeling of purpose.
But, aside from that little blonde distraction which does not serve me right now, I need to make introductions and manipulate some old money casino builders into taking a deal with my former associates.
It won’t be the sexiest deal I’ve ever made but it’s got the best payout.
My life.
But I need a daughter. Before tonight.
And therein lies the rub, because despite getting what I thought was the perfect girl lined up a week ago, turns out, she had a big fucking flaw.
Loose lips sink ships.
She took me as a man that could be led around by his dick, as if I’d give her the opportunity.
I told her I had zero interest in fucking her and I wouldn’t even remember her name after this job was done, she took that as a challenge. I’ve got eyes and ears around Vegas and it didn’t take long, even in her low rent circles, for word to get back that she needed a lesson in keeping my name out of her mouth.
She got it.
So now I’m desperate.
I glance at the screen as my phone buzzes and grind my teeth.
It’s Zeneli Xhaka, the Krye, or street boss of the group that I used to work with before I set their human cargo free.
He’s a fucktard with a Godfather complex but right now, I gotta take the call.
“What?”
“Mr. Belotti. I have a car waiting for you on the tarmac. You will take it.”
“I’ve got my own.”
“No. My driver will keep me informed of your location.” He pauses. Yeah, I’m temporarily screwed but I’ve never been in a situation that I couldn’t unscrew given enough time. “Have you found your beloved daughter yet?”
“Nyet,” I growl.
Zeneli chuckles. “That is Russian, Mr. Belotti. In Albania we say jo. But I’m hoping the next time we speak, the answer will be yes. You were the one that said by presenting yourself as a family man, even providing bait for Margaret Malcolm’s virgin loving son, you would surely make our deal proceed. The only reason you are alive is because you’re useful to me. Don’t make the mistake of changing that.”
He hangs up and I squeeze the phone so hard silk thread-like cracks crisscross the black glass.
I could take him one on one if that had been an option. I’ve enjoyed my share of good food and wine and I’m carrying about forty pounds worth of cover over my core but knowing how to fight and win isn’t just about fists. There’s an X factor; you either have it or you don’t. It’s what got me through SEAL training.
But Zeneli has an army behind him. A black-hearted, creative and obedient one. I’ve been around when they schooled others on the repercussions of fucking with their business. I’m not clean either, I’ve got plenty of blood and dead bodies in my history, but I’m tired. I’m fifty-two years old and I don’t sleep.
I’ve lost the ability to feel pleasure. I’m a walking dead man so it’s get out and try to find what makes me alive again or just be dead.
The chopper sets down with a bump and the whirring of the blades slows as my face stares back at me from the window next to my seat.
I look fucking dead. The gray at my temples and the creases around my eyes remind me more and more that time is not infinite. Despite the flatline of emotions in my features, I’m impeccably put together as always. My hand-stitched gray suit is creaseless, my white custom-made shirt is open at the collar, no tie. I might have packed on a good forty pounds over the years but I’ve never been vain about myself. I like good food, but I’d take hundred to one odds I could still lay out anyone that came at me.