Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Not like he needs more. Ice flows through Vince’s veins and he’d sooner break my neck than say he loves me, and frankly, I feel the same damn way.
“Don’t tell Rella or Susi. I don’t need them worrying.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, brother.”
He seems relieved and nods once. Weakness is the enemy of a man like Vince, and he can’t afford to show an ounce of softness or frailty. That’s why he won’t question my explanation and won’t press too hard: he’s terrified that I’ll spread the story of him falling asleep with his dick in the mouth of a stripper, and that would be catastrophically bad for him and the family.
If his enemies heard that he was falling asleep while two women sucked him off in the back of a strip club, they’d start pushing at the boundaries of his organization just to see how much they could get away with. Vince has to project strength at all times, not only to keep his position as the Don of the Los Angeles mafia, but also to make sure his enemies don’t get bold enough to make trouble.
It makes him tough but it also makes him weak and brittle, and it’s not hard to use his fear against him to get what I want, so all I need to do is push at the right buttons to make him dance exactly the way I need.
I shadow him into the hallway. He seems unsteady, but he walks back through the beaded curtain and into the main section of the club, and I wait only a few moments before I turn and start toward the back door. I pass a group of chattering drink girls on the way—they’re always standing around in packs gossiping and talking shit on the customers—and I catch the eye of Juniper, a brunette with big eyes and a terrible attitude. I’m not sure why I haven’t fired her ass yet.
“Tell Martin he’s got the club,” I say as I walk past. “And if Diego comes back, have him close without me.”
“Whatever you want, Calvino,” Juniper says giving me this ridiculous fuck-me smile.
I don’t break stride. My head’s spinning and I keep seeing Grace down on her knees in front of my unconscious brother using his thumb to unlock his phone with a look of pure determination in her face, and the fear that flickered into her expression when I pinned her against the wall, and the way her body seemed to stiffen as I touched her exposed flesh, that fucking top designed to show off her large beautiful breasts, that skirt sewn to tantalize and tease her luscious little ass, and the way my own pulse raced when my fingertips grazed along her soft legs and brushed along her hips at her hip bones. I’ve noticed Gracie before, quiet little Gracie, pretty little Gracie with her deep auburn hair curly and shoulder-length, pink lips, wide hips, and luscious breasts, but I never gave her more than a passing thought—I’ve never had time to consider her.
Until tonight, when she drugged my brother and tried to break into his phone.
What would drive a girl to do something so blatantly suicidal?
My blood buzzes with desire as a smile breaks across my face. I’ve been living in a fog of boredom and rage for nearly eight months and this is the most interesting thing that’s happened in a long time. I need to unravel her—I have to find out what the hell she was thinking, who she works for, what she wants, everything about her.
I need to crack her open and break her.
I step out into the parking lot, get behind the wheel of my black Range Rover, and drive fast toward my penthouse apartment.
The apartment’s quiet as I step inside and toss my keys on the small entry table. Above it, an oil painting of a rolling countryside with a tiny farmhouse in the distance, barely more than a blob of red and white paint, hovers like a window into another world where there isn’t pain and suffering and blood around every corner. I run my gaze down the brushstrokes for a moment and try to clear my mind before I force myself to head back toward my bedroom, my heart pounding a slow but rough rhythm. I know what’s waiting for me, and I suddenly feel like I can’t approach it, like if I go into that room, I’ll have to shoot the girl in the head and the idea of blowing her pretty little skull to pieces twists my stomach, something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Pity, or desire? Or a combination of both? I can’t tell, and I’m not sure I want to know either way. I had to steel myself against these feelings a long, long time ago, but they’re still inside, buried down deep below the madness and lust and hatred, but lurking there like an ancient sea creature waiting to wake up.