Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Only then would he be satisfied.
Milah fighting, that wasn’t a bad thing as far as he was concerned. Her ability to defend herself made a whole lot of sense to him. This world wasn’t kind to women. Milah was living proof of that.
Her father had told him he could have anything he wanted, but not to kill him. He’d asked for Milah. Not for marriage, but for his daughter. He’d given her to him without batting an eye.
After their session in the gym where Damon had asked her to spar with him, they’d returned to the main house. Milah left to get washed and changed, and he’d gone to the basement, where his chef was chained up.
He hadn’t attended to him last night, dealing with the staff. Three of the women were dead. Two more he’d made sure they never defied him again, sent to one of the street whorehouses. They would earn their keep one way or another. Not with the rich cock, but with cheap dick.
The small light of the basement was lit, and he stared at his chef, his body limp as the chains held him up.
“How the mighty does fall,” Damon said.
“You can’t kill me. Your father offered me protection,” the chef said, coughing.
“And you think he’s alive somewhere to see that you are?” Damon asked. He laughed. It was sinister.
He used to like the chef. Not as a boy. He’d hated him. The man was cruel and would often swat at him if he even dared to sneak into the kitchen to steal food. It was strange he hadn’t thought of that time until this very moment.
His father had always said the chef was just looking after his domain. The kitchen was his responsibility, and it was up to him to serve them all good food.
Damon stepped in front of the chef. “You never stepped out of line. Even after my father died. You were always sure to do as you were told. Never making waves. Until now.”
“She has no right to sit at your table. To cook in my kitchen.”
“That kitchen is mine!” Damon yelled. “It was never yours, and you thought to poison my guest.”
“It would be a kindness to her.”
Damon picked up one of the chef’s knives. He’d watched him use it as a boy, striping the skin from fish. It was sharp, with a nice point, and also flexible.
“You see this? I wonder if it will do the same trick on human flesh as it does to fish.”
The chef’s screams filled the basement. With his body wriggling, Damon took large chunks of flesh off the man’s body.
The pain got too much for him, and he passed out.
Damon didn’t stop though. Unbeknownst to his father, he had learned the fine art of torture from his grandfather. He continued to take more pieces until he was bored. Some of his guards were in the room, waiting. They were the ones with the strongest stomachs.
When he was a young boy of about eleven, his parents went away on a honeymoon, leaving him at home with his grandfather. Now, his grandfather was a cruel man, but to his grandson, he wasn’t. Damon liked his grandfather, even if he didn’t agree with the man’s methods most of the time, if at all. The De Lucas always had enemies. Not just the Russo, but far and wide. One night, the house was attacked. Some of the guards had turned against his grandfather because of his cruel treatment of them, and it had put them all in danger.
Damon had nearly been killed, but his father had shown him how to hunt, and killing had been natural to him.
His grandfather had been proud to see the men who had attempted to kill him dead on the floor. As a reward, he got to see what they did to the enemy. It was the first time he watched his grandfather torture.
“To survive in this world, Damon, you need to be willing to do the unthinkable. To be willing to hurt those who would take from you. The more people fear you, the greater you will become.”
After Damon threw a bucket of water onto the chef, he came to, screaming, gasping, begging.
Damon wasn’t done teaching this man a lesson. He didn’t want to think about why he was so angry. Why it bothered him that this man would dare to serve a Russo dog shit or poison. Milah had nothing to do with this.
With every passing hour, it was hard to think of her as a Russo. Her actions didn’t scream of it.
Anyone else would have allowed her mother’s guards to be killed. Her father would be furious to know what she could do. He had no doubt. Russo hated powerful women. It was why none of his closest allies were women.