Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
That’s when I see him, there at the entrance to the room.
Everything inside me turns to stone as he saunters in like he owns the place but sticks out like a ruby in a bed of diamonds.
The men here wear suits if only to hide the markings of what gangs they’re tied to, and they walk in with a sense of ease, almost a pep in their step if men like them are capable of one. Why? Because they know, win or lose, at the end of the night, when the tables are closed, the money they came here to wash will end up right where it’s supposed to be.
That’s the beauty of this place.
We’ve erased the threat of a setup or worse.
The hard part is whatever the hell they did before coming here that led them to need to make a visit, and we don’t ask where their money comes from; we just accept it and take our cut. Should whoever handles their money once it’s squeaky clean ever fuck up and make the government wonder, they have something to fall back on.
Gambling winnings or losses.
It’s a win-win, and they send their most trusted into our space, the ones capable of relaxing, who can sit back and enjoy a drink and a pretty face because they know she’s not placed there as bait.
Bastian is not relaxed or calm or anyone’s most trusted.
I’m not so sure I can claim to trust him at all, though I think a really dumb part of me might.
He’s the picture of aggression, dark hair seeming somehow darker. Tattoos, somehow fiercer, stand out against his fair skin like the scars of a soldier, and the shadows under his eyes seem to double.
Even though I’m not in the room, I feel the air shift, the little hairs at the nape of my neck standing on end, the sleuths in my soul beckoning me to him one shiver at a time.
How can a man—a boy, as some might call him—with nothing to his name step into a room where the name you claim is your worth and appear the dominant one?
How did he get into the room in the first place?
The answer comes in the form of a silent alarm.
Wide-eyed, I whip my head toward Bronx, cupping the cuff on my wrist as it vibrates against me.
She jumps up, as does Damiano, the only others in this room who were alerted.
She follows my gaze back to the window right as Carson, the man running the room tonight, makes his way to Bastian and a sharp breath slices down my throat.
I prepare to dart, the hem of my dress in my hand, but Damiano catches my wrist with his, his other darting up to his earpiece.
“False alarm.” He glares at me, his hand shaking. “I said false alarm,” he repeats even more sharply. He’s pissed, aware now it’s not just a guy from the outside … but that the guy has found his way within our inner sanctum.
The bracelet stops vibrating right as Delta, her men right behind her, burst through the door.
Worry creases her brows as she rushes toward us, but then her eyes slowly slide to the one-sided window.
Carson’s shoulders ease and he sweeps a hand, giving his okay for Bastian to pass.
“Is that …” one says.
“Damn, he’s …” trails the other.
I can only nod, my gaze tracking his every step as he weaves through a few of the tables, head after head turning his way, sizing him up as he passes.
He steps up to the bar, and a moment later, the bartender hands him something, leaning over a little too far, but he doesn’t accept the view down her top she so sweetly offers.
No, his eyes snap up, and my lungs jump when they lock onto mine.
My pulse beats harder as I stare into the endless marble pits before me.
“He can’t … I mean, there’s no way he sees you … right?” Delta whispers.
“No.” It’s Dom who answers, his tone strained yet curious. “He can’t see her.”
Once again, I steal the drink from Bronx’s hand, downing it in one go right as another couple boxes on the screen flash white. With Dom’s hand off me, I tear my dress over my head, leaving me in the lingerie I didn’t intend on showing to all tonight, and rush out the same door the other girls did.
“Rocklin, wait!” Dom shouts, but I’m already gone.
The girls, some prospects, some already donning their golden Greyson pins, part for me without a word, and I mask my expression as I step up to the door, waiting for someone from the security room to buzz me in.
It feels like a century passes before I step inside.
The room is thick with the scent of cigars, and what is supposed to be a safe zone for all reads a little heavier.