Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
My apartment was on 86th Street. 56th flashed past.
I went faster. The car stayed right behind me. I felt panic rise in my chest and my legs began to burn. I wished I was in better shape.
I thought back to what Roman said.
About being in danger.
But he also said he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, and I believed him.
Maybe that was stupid.
He said it himself—he was more dangerous than a gangster.
That house was seductive. Roza was nice. His hands felt good on my body.
I let myself believe the pretty lies.
And now I was paying for it.
Dia’s skull, blown to pieces, and Manzi’s wild, crazy eyes.
I worked harder. Sweat beaded on my skin, despite the cold. A harsh wind blew in off the bay, bringing the stink of stale plant life with it.
The car stayed right behind me for ten blocks.
When I reached 68th Street and the relative dark and quiet of the empty tourist homes, the car’s headlights suddenly blazed. The high beams bathed me in brightness and I turned my handlebars in surprise, veering off to the side and bounced up over the curb. I let out a shout, rolled over a rocky front yard, and rolled down a dead end street.
The marshy grass spread out in front of me as I slammed on my handlebars, lost control of the bike, and toppled over. I screamed as I hit the pavement and smashed my shoulder on the pavement. I would’ve lost a layer of skin all down my arm if it weren’t for the thick, oversized jacket I had on.
The car rolled to a stop right in front of me, the high beams still blazing.
I groaned and pushed myself up onto my hands then scrambled into my pockets.
The car door opened and a figure stepped out. It came toward me, walking into the blaze of the headlights, and as it got closer the sharp realization made me nearly throw up.
It was the creepy guy from the bar.
The one that smiled at me. The one I imagined dating.
He stood over me and pointed a gun at my face.
“Hello, Cassie. You’re a terrible bartender.”
“Who are you? What are you doing?”
“This is nothing personal. It’s just that Giatno ordered me to kill you and even though I don’t really love shooting girls in the face, I can’t say no to my Don. So here we are.”
My heart raced wildly. I saw Dia on her knees in front of Manzi. I heard her pleading for her life—the little Spanish pet names she used for him, the seductive curl to her voice—and knew there was nothing I could do.
Almost nothing.
Once upon a time, I almost died.
A horrible man sliced me open, side to side. Back then, I saved myself by blasting him in the face with pepper spray.
They say history repeats.
It’s not supposed to repeat like this.
I ripped the can of Mace from my pocket and threw myself to the side as I pressed down on the trigger.
The creep fired his gun a split second after. I heard the bullet whizz past my face and slam into the pavement behind me. I kept spraying the Mace, screaming so loud my throat was raw.
“Oh, you fucking BITCH,” the creep shouted and fired again, missed again. I rolled sideways, sprayed more Mace. He spit and wiped at his eyes with his free hand and shot his gun a third time, the noise so loud I thought it might make my ears explode, and missed again. I tried to run but my ankle was swollen from the crash and I staggered down to my knees in a shock of pain.
Tired burned along the pavement. Another car hurtled down the street. It was a black SUV, shining and dangerous. It slammed on its brakes and stopped inches behind the creep’s car.
“What the fuck is this?” The creep retched and spit again, still pawing at his face. He raised the weapon, aiming it at nothing. “Who the fuck are you?” he shouted.
Someone stepped out from the back seat.
The creepy squinted. His eyes were swollen and bright red like he’d been stung by a hundred angry bees. I scrambled away and put the creep’s car between him and me in case he decided to start shooting again.
The man walked forward and I let out an audible shocked gasp.
It was Roman.
What the hell was Roman doing?
Another person stepped out from the driver’s side. Erick, the bodyguard. He met my gaze and walked over casually, like we were meeting at a mall. He smiled warmly and knelt down next to me.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Just my ankle.”
He looked down at my leg and shook his head. “Lucky girl.”
The creep took a few steps toward Roman then stopped. His hand shook and his gun lowered slightly, though still pointed at Roman’s midsection. “What are you doing here? I thought you were back in Manhattan. Giatno said—“