Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Besides the previous head of the bratva, I’m the best assassin in the world. If the person threatening Camille’s life is from the criminal world, he will definitely know who I am.
The person would be stupid as fuck to attack her once they’ve seen her with me.
You owe Nikolai.
You owe Camille.
“Blyadʹ,” I mutter while rising to my feet.
Grabbing my jacket from where it’s draped over the back of the chair, I shrug it on. With my guns safely in the vault, I leave the hotel room.
It’s not like I need a weapon. I’ve been trained in every fighting style and can kill a man with my bare hands. I’m the predator the worst of the worst hires and the good people of the world avoid. I’m the nightmare you don’t want to come face-to-face with.
And for the next couple of months, I’ll have to be Camille’s guardian.
As I make my way to the lobby, I pull my phone from my pocket and send Nikolai a text.
Maxim: Fine. I’ll babysit the girl.
Nikolai reads the message immediately, and soon his reply comes through.
Nikolai: I owe you. I’m going home this coming weekend. Join me so we can catch up and discuss the contract.
It’s been a while since I’ve visited the island situated near Finland that Nikolai calls home. His parents, grandparents, and sister also live there. The island is nothing short of a fortress where the Vetrovs run their billion-dollar diamond-smuggling empire.
Maxim: I’ll be there Saturday morning.
I tuck the device back into my pocket and walk toward a conference room situated on the ground floor of the hotel where I’m staying. A function is being held to raise money for global warming, and every socialite in France should be there.
Including Camille.
Just like with any other job, I need to get to know Camille’s routine. I want to see what she’s like when she’s out in public.
There are two guards stationed at the door, and after showing them the very expensive ticket I purchased, I’m allowed to enter the room.
Most of the funds made at this event will be embezzled, and global warming won’t see a dime. That pisses me off. Even though I’ve made millions being an assassin, I hate wasting money.
Classical music fills the air while people stand around in small groups, discussing shit I have zero interest in.
My gaze lands on a sexy-as-fuck ass that’s plump enough to handle a good spanking. A black silk dress fits her body like a second skin, the fabric falling to the curve of her lower back.
Jesus Christ.
I feel a physical blow in my gut from seeing Camille DuBois in the flesh. My eyes stop on the scar in the middle of her back where the bullet hit.
It punctured her lung and missed her heart by the width of a hair strand.
I shake my head so the memory of that day can’t take root and drag me down to the pool of guilt that’s been festering for ten years in my chest.
I have no problem taking a life if the person is an evil fuck who deserves a bullet to the head. But killing an innocent doesn’t sit well with me. It’s the one thing I won’t do.
Camille turns, and I catch sight of a polite smile as she nods at the couple she’s talking to.
Christ, she looks like an angel.
Her beauty shines from her like the sun, and I can see people gravitating toward her as she glides across the floor in the direction of a group of girls. Her smile brightens a little as she joins them.
Camille looks like a wet dream in heels.
I walk to the bar and order, “Vodka. Neat. No ice.”
The bartender nods, and while he pours the drink, I take in all the other people before scrutinizing Camille’s ‘friends.’
To Camille’s left stands Juliette Faure, the redhead who’s set to marry the son of a billionaire. The other three ‘friends,’ Brigitte Bancel, Sophie Renoir, and Liliane De Rothschild, are beneath Camille and Juliette in status and tend to follow the two women around like lapdogs.
I say friends because none of those women give a shit about each other. It’s all about status. Who you’re seen hanging out with is printed in magazines and newspapers the next day, and that shit’s important to these people.
I guess it’s the same in my world. It’s seldom you’re lucky to have a real friend.
My eyes lock on Camille again, and I take in every exquisite detail of her. How she carries herself around other people. The fake smile. The stiffness in her spine. The half-full champagne glass that looks more like a prop than a drink she’s enjoying.
She’s not enjoying herself.
I catch her glancing at her phone, and relief flickers across her features.
When Camille says goodbye to the other women and sets the flute down on a table, I forget about my own drink and follow her out of the conference room.