Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“I’m trying to focus on the mission, that’s all.”
He snorts and looks at me. “Come on, don’t give me that shit. You haven’t left that room in over a day.”
“That’s not true.”
“I went looking for you this morning, asshole. Alexandre told me the door hasn’t opened in nearly a day. Then you call about setting up hospital equipment, but you rush off the phone without explaining.”
My jaw tenses. “Tell Alexandre he’d better watch his fucking mouth.”
“Don’t take it out on the guards, Julien. What’s going on with the girl?”
“Nothing’s going on. She’s my wife. It’s a business arrangement. That’s the end of it.”
Jean goes quiet. He brushes his fingers over the steering wheel before speaking again. “It’s okay to like your wife, you know.”
“Thank you, I’m aware.”
“I just mean, I understand that you two didn’t start off the way most relationships do, but who the fuck cares? We aren’t exactly normal people.”
He’s got a point there. “That’s not the problem.”
“What is then?”
“She made it clear that she doesn’t want something long-term.”
He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “And you do?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t know how to. I never thought I was the marriage type. In my head, when I asked Ronan for a wife, I was getting out of my arrangement with Collette while also strengthening ties with a worthwhile ally. Now though, now that I’ve been with Brianne for a little while and experienced what it’s like to be her husband, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve always been the marriage type, only I hadn’t found the right wife.
“She pisses me off,” I say after a while. “She’s stubborn. Self-absorbed. Headstrong.”
“She’s beautiful. She makes you laugh.” Jean rolls his eyes when I glare at him. “I know you better than anyone, you prick. Just admit you like the girl.”
“Fine. I like her. She’s my fucking wife. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. That’s the point I’m trying to make. Let yourself be happy for once, for fuck’s sake.”
I grunt in reply and stare at the check-cashing place. “We’re at war. Grandpère is trying to undermine my grip on this organization. This is a very bad time to fall for my wife.”
“But you admit that you’re falling for her.”
Jean’s grin is infuriating and I don’t bother responding.
I try not to think about Brianne for the rest of the evening, but that’s more or less impossible. The second I think I’ve mastered it, suddenly I see her in my head again, her devilish smile, her proud smirk as she takes my cock into her mouth, her moans as she comes, her sweaty, satisfied grin as she lounges on the bed naked and happy.
When midnight finally rolls around, I know there’s only one way to get my head right.
“Violence time,” I murmur as I open the car door.
There aren’t many vehicles left in the parking lot. But as soon as I step out, the truck’s door opens too. Niall appears, followed by several Irish soldiers from the back. Further down, some of my men pile out of an SUV, and a grand total of eleven armed and dangerous men storm across the parking lot.
Niall takes point. Half the soldiers go around the back to make sure nobody can escape out that way. I nod at Jean, and Niall yanks open the door, and the whole crew crashes in the front.
The place is dim. The front windows are covered with bulletproof glass. There’s a lone clerk typing on a computer and he doesn’t notice until Niall starts kicking down the door that leads into his part of the building. The man shouts in alarm, and I have to step up and help before the door finally cracks off its hinges in a shower of wood and plaster.
The employees’ section is filled with safes, registers, money bags, and piles of cigarettes for sale. The soldiers fan out and start trashing the place, smashing everything and stealing as much money as they can get their hands on. They have orders to make it look like a robbery.
There’s a scream from further on. I follow a narrow hallway with Jean and Niall at my back. Ahead, the clerk is cowering on his knees, as one of my men stands over him, gun pointed at his head. The fluorescent lights dim and flicker as I approach.
“Please, take what you want,” the clerk says. He’s in his forties or fifties, balding, heavy, with a hooked nose and a distinctly Eastern European look. Grubby white shirt tucked into jeans. Puma shoes, smudged and worn in. “I do not care, just don’t hurt me.”
“Where is Dusan?” I ask him.
The man’s eyes widen. “Who? I do not know this—”
I shove the barrel of my gun against his left eye. I push hard and feel his eyeball flex. “Where is Dusan?”
“He has an office,” the man whines. “Please, I don’t know. He’s not here.”