Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 71179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Damn,” I mutter to myself. “This might be more secure than the McAllisters’ place.”
I drive up to the gate and press the intercom button as sweat beads at my temples. I stare at the camera fixed on me as I wait for someone to answer.
“State your name and purpose,” a voice crackles through the speaker.
“Falcon Bellamy,” I reply, my tone firm and unwavering. “I’m here to see Vincent Gallo.”
The voice pauses, and all I can hear is some rustling and crackling on the other end. My heart is beating more rapidly than normal, but not overly so. I’m not frightened.
I’ve faced worse than Vincent Gallo in the last eight years.
Of course, those inmates didn’t have snipers trained on me. The same can’t be said for Savannah’s asshole father.
“You may enter,” the voice finally responds.
The gates creak open, beckoning me forward.
I drive through, up a circular driveway, and an armed guard gestures me to a parking spot outside the mansion. I step out of the car, and an eerie silence hangs in the air, as if the whole of the estate is holding its breath.
The mansion itself is beautiful. The warm, earthy tones of the stucco walls are speckled with arched windows, and the entire structure is crowned with a red-tiled roof. Lush landscaping encircles the building, with beautifully trimmed gardens filled with classical Roman-style fountains, statues, and pathways. The whole house is probably gorgeous in the daytime.
However, in the black of night, it might as well be Dracula’s castle, luring me in with the sole intention of bleeding me dry.
“This way,” the guard says.
An armed escort.
Yeah, I’ve seen this before.
The mansion may look all glitzy and elegant from the outside, but the inside is a prison.
Just like the McAllister manse when Savannah was their prisoner.
Vincent Gallo’s no prisoner, of course, but his wife most likely is.
Then again, this security isn’t made to keep prisoners in. No, it’s made to keep intruders out.
Potato po-tah-to.
The guard navigates me through a metal detector.
“Do you have anything in your pockets?” he asks.
“Just my phone, wallet, and keys.”
“Give them to me.”
I surrender the items out of my pockets. He looks them over, examining every inch of my wallet, even pulling out a few dollar bills and examining them closely.
He then looks at my phone, turning the screen on and off.
“All clear. Please walk through the metal detector.”
I do so. It doesn’t beep, thank God.
“Please put your arms out, sir.”
For Christ’s sake.
“Are you going to pat me down?”
“If you want to visit with Mr. Gallo, yes.”
“But I went through the metal detector. It didn’t beep.”
“This is protocol, sir. Would you like to leave?”
I sigh. “No I wouldn’t.”
I put my arms out. The guard squats down and pats my legs, thighs, and hips thoroughly. He then looks over my chest and shoulders. When he’s done, he takes a step back.
“Right this way, sir.”
“Can I have my phone back?”
“Only once you leave. Mr. Gallo does not allow photos to be taken in his private residence.”
“What if I promise not to take any photos?”
“You may still leave if you do not want to adhere to the rules of the house.”
God damn it all.
“Fine.”
It’s worth it to talk to the piece of shit who calls himself Savannah’s father.
Of course, I’m not laboring under any delusion that Gallo will tell me what’s going on. Hell, he may not even listen to me. Mostly likely, he’ll try strong-arming me into some kind of submission.
But he hasn’t met Savage.
Once we reach the door, the guard rings the bell.
A tuxedoed butler answers.
“Mr. Falcon Bellamy,” the guard says.
The butler nods. “Of course, Mr. Bellamy. Please come in. I’m Ferguson, the Gallos’ butler.”
Ferguson reminds me of Nana’s old butler, Laurence. Is he even still alive? We never had a butler at our place. My father was a little more down to earth, though we did have a live-in housekeeper and nanny while we kids were little, though Mom felt that raising us was her responsibility.
I enter the opulent mansion, the air heavy with the scent of wealth and power. My footsteps echo off the marble floors as Ferguson leads me to a study where Savannah’s father—presumably—sits behind a giant wooden desk.
“Mr. Bellamy,” he says coolly, his expression guarded.
“Mr. Gallo,” I reply, keeping my voice low and determined. Thank you for seeing me hovers on my tongue, but instead, “We need to talk.”
He raises an eyebrow but remains tight-lipped, his face a mask of indifference. But his eyes betray a flicker of unease.
“About what?” he asks, his tone clipped.
“About Savannah’s forced marriage,” I say, my gaze never leaving his.
The tension in the room rises as we lock eyes, each of us unwilling to back down. But I know I must press further, break through his defenses, and get to the truth.
“Tell me,” I demand. “Why are you doing this? What do you stand to gain?”