Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I’d never let someone in my crew take the fall for my mistake. Fio knows this about me, he knows that I take care of my people, and he still went against me anyway. Which means he either doesn’t trust me—
Or my father doesn’t trust me.
“Tony, come on.” I turn and walk out the door with the girl in tow. Tony follows, silent, looking unhappy, but he understands how this works. You turn against your crew, your brothers, and you’re dead. That’s how it goes. I should’ve put one in Fio’s skull, but I don’t want to break his mother’s heart.
“You fucking bastard, Luca,” Fio shouts from the bedroom. “You piece of shit! She’s nothing! She’s a Greek fucking whore and you’re going to burn yourself to pieces saving her life, you stupid fuck!”
I stare grimly ahead and march forward. Tony says nothing at all, only follows.
Fio’s right. I am going to burn my life to pieces saving this girl, and I don’t know why I’m doing it, but I made the decision in blood.
Kacia Florakis is mine.
Now I need to decide what to do with her.
Chapter 3
Kacia
Another window. Another beautiful landscape of trees and shrubs and rolling hills, and I can almost taste and smell the salty ocean air. I stare outside, yearning for the dirt and the trees, for a deep breath of fresh grass and open blue sky and the sound of the waves.
This time, I desperately want Perico to tell me to step away for my own protection. I crave his voice, his hand on my shoulder, his comforting, calming presence. There was a part of me that believed him when he said we’d be okay, but he must’ve known that was always bullshit, that no crime lord worth his title would be stupid enough to put himself in the crosshairs of the Sicilians right after they got the biggest win of their career. Everyone must’ve known they were coming for me and it was only a matter of time.
Perico must’ve known too.
He could’ve run away. He’s smart and skilled and knew everyone in Greece. He could’ve hidden himself somewhere and survived for years longer, maybe retired to the countryside to raise battle and grow weed.
Instead, he stayed.
And he died.
For me.
I sob once but bite my lip to stop myself from crying more.
Papa, gone. Atticus and Karanos, gone. Now Perico.
Everything’s been taken from me, and I don’t understand why I’m still here.
The Sicilian. Luca Valverde. I close my eyes and feel his hands on my body as he pulled me against him a heartbeat before that other gangster nearly shot my head off. I can smell Luca, sweat and musk and spice, and I can still sense some of his warmth on my skin.
Why did he save my life? Why would he shoot one of his own men to protect me? I don’t understand it, and I’m terrified of what this means for my future.
If I even have a future anymore.
There’s a knock at the door. I turn away, pining so sharply for Perico that I want to cry again. I don’t care if that man was the Butcher of Rhodes like Luca says, he was still the only person that was ever kind to me, and I want him here to tell me what to do so badly it’s like a knife in my side.
The door opens and Luca’s standing there, staring at me.
The room is simple. There’s a table in the center with a chair on either side and a cot against the far wall. Beyond that, there’s a locked window and nothing else.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head, saying nothing.
“Thirsty then.” He walks to the table and places a bottle of water down.
I hesitate, but take it and drink half down.
He doesn’t smile as he watches me. I wipe my lips with my arm and clutch the bottle like it’s a shield. Like it might protect me. But I’m far from home and a plastic bottle won’t help me against a beast like Luca Valverde.
He’s big and handsome. Tall, broad. Tattoos up his arms. Full lips and dark eyes. Dark hair, dark beard kept trimmed. His muscles practically flex every time he moves, and he’s graceful like a jungle cat prowling in the darkness. He pulls the chair back and gestures for me to do the same.
I don’t move.
“What am I doing here?” I ask. “Where am I right now?”
“You’re in Sicily in my home.”
“Your house has a prison in it?”
“Yes, it does.”
I should be surprised, but I’m not. He’s a Valverde, after all. Gangster, mobster, criminal. Killer, monster, thief.
“I guess this is where you’ll be keeping me for a while.”
“For a while,” he agrees and gestures again. “Please. Sit. We have to talk.”
I sink down into the seat and sit up straight. Good posture like Papa taught me. Well, taught is a kind word for what he did. I recall slumping once while eating dinner in his presence, this was ten years ago, and he smacked my knuckles with the flat of a butter knife until the skin broke. You will sit like a fucking queen, Kacia. You will not slump like a peasant.