Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I stared at my assistant, so much shorter than me with his tough little scowl. I could take him out here and now and be done with it, but I didn’t. It seems that every single one of us has our idiocies, mine was a selfish desire to keep Alto alive to serve me.
He gestured to my suit.
“Terence Kingsley, out for the night, knows Elaine Constantine has been snatched from city central . . . some people might ask questions.”
“Not people who had any fucking sense in them,” I snarled.
He held up his hands. “Sure thing, Lucian. Sure thing. Just saying. People will be asking a fuck load of questions about Elaine Constantine and what the fuck happened to her.”
“Yeah,” I said. “They will. You’d better keep me informed of them. Me before my father. He can wait in line for the news.”
“Alright,” he told me. “You before Bryant. I’ll be back with news as soon as I get it.”
He saw himself out without even an attempt at a goodbye. No point making niceties with a sonofabitch like me. He’d learnt that well enough over the last decade.
It was unlike me to feel any sense of relief or nervousness. It was unlike me to feel anything in my psychopathic monster of a mind. Feelings were a novelty. Still, I felt them both in that moment. A clash that had my insides dancing in my gut.
I should’ve learnt from my own bullshit and the chaos about to kick off in the world around me. I should’ve settled down into my Morelli Empire and let Elaine bitch Constantine shrivel away to nothing over at Kington Peak, thanking the Power Brothers for covering up my insanity of a kidnap.
Yet again, I didn’t.
Fuck that temptress and her filthy fucking ways, but I didn’t.
I barely gave Alto any time to leave the complex before I was straight back down to the parking bay and slipping back into my Merc. Only this time there was no Terence Kingsley in sight. This time Lucian Morelli looked like Lucian fucking Morelli.
Elaine Constantine was going to get me at my best.
Sorry little bitch.
7
Elaine
The darkness had me wrapped up tight. The light wasn’t working overhead. There was a bed in the room, but I didn’t want to use it. I was pressed up against the wall opposite the door with my arms around my knees, hugging myself tight.
So many nights I’d been scared in the darkness staring at a locked door. Waiting. Waiting for people. Men.
Now I was waiting for one man. One god.
I was thirsty and cold. Alone.
I was the broken little Elaine I’d been running away from for years, only now I had no coke or drink to help me escape her. Fuck, I needed it. I needed the escape.
Kington Peak was a backwater little nothingness. Nobody would think to look for me here in a thousand years. I really was at Lucian Morelli’s mercy now. He could leave me here to shrivel and die and nobody would ever know it. As much as I wanted to be dead, the thought of dying like that was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Please God, don’t let Lucian Morelli be that evil. Even Lucian Morelli can’t be that evil.
Only he could be. I knew he could be. Lucian Morelli could be the most evil monster I’d ever known.
I nearly cried with relief when I heard a car pull up the driveway and into the garage. I rushed up to the window but couldn’t see anything, just pitch black outside. Nothing until the porch light came on and lit up the figure heading up to the front door.
I stepped back and pressed myself up against the wall, braced and ready. The front door slammed downstairs, and I heard footsteps. I heard movement.
It was him. I knew it was him.
I don’t know whether I was more scared or more relieved as I waited for his entry. Only it didn’t come. Nothing came.
More movement sounded downstairs but still nothing. Still no footsteps on the stairs.
It felt like I was waiting a lifetime, standing there with my heart thumping hard. When his footsteps finally did sound out on the stairs, I was almost grateful he was coming. Anything would be better than fading away alone.
The key was heavy in the lock. The door swung open slow and steady, and there he was. The huge frame of him was lit up by the light from downstairs, only this time he didn’t look like Terence Kingsley, some paltry journalist from the UK. This time he was Lucian Morelli, suited and booted.
He didn’t speak to me, just stood there, leaning against the frame, even more sinister in his ease.
I didn’t speak to him, because my throat was dry and I didn’t know what the hell to say.