Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I shoot to the mirror when I hear him making his way to the bathroom, picking up my toothbrush and shoving it in my mouth. The door opens. I look at him in the reflection. He’s trying to hide it with a dazzling smile, but he looks troubled.
“Rose.” He puts himself behind me, his chin on my shoulder. “I have to leave.”
I pout, feigning disappointment. This suite is luxurious and all mine when he’s not here pummeling into me like a depraved sex-starved animal. I’m free to indulge. But I’m never really alone. Never really free. “When will I see you again?” I ask, because that’s exactly what I should do.
“I’ll be back later this evening.”
My jaw tightens. “Perfect.” I turn into him and lay a kiss on his cheek. “Look forward to it.”
He leaves the bathroom, and I hear him close the suite door behind him a few moments later. Now would be a perfect time to seize one of those rare and precious moments. To draw a bath. Pig out on the in-room dining. Scroll the channels and watch something mind-numbing. But . . .
I head into the bedroom and settle at the desk, plucking the camera from behind the lamp. Then I call him.
“Rose.” His voice has my tongue thickening in my mouth and my throat closing up on me.
“I have more videos.”
“We have plenty of videos. What I need is information. You’ve been there for two weeks and have nothing but footage of him fucking you, which I can’t use without breaking your cover. Go out with him. In public.”
“He’s too careful. He won’t risk being seen.”
“Find a way.”
“I ca—” There’s a knock on the suite’s door, and I swing around on my chair. “I think he’s back.”
“Answer the door, Rose. I sent you room service.”
I stare at the wood, breathing out my nose quietly so he doesn’t hear the wariness escaping me. Room service? Sure.
Not since the day this man bought me has he ordered me room service. He’s done nothing for me without a personal motive. That’s never going to change. I stand, holding my towel to my body, and make my way to the door, opening it to find a trolley cluttered with platters and silverware. “Thank you,” I say down the line, looking up to the guy who’s delivered my room service. I stare him straight in the eye as he draws his fist back, and then I turn away as he launches his punch, sinking his fist into my back. The air is knocked out of me, and my body folds in instinct rather than to stem the pain. For ten years, I’ve been at the mercy of the man on the phone. Bruises, cuts. Pain has been my constant companion. Physically? I’m not sure how much more I can take. Mentally? Mentally, I’ve been a nonentity for too long to know. There is only hopelessness.
I straighten and return forward, knowing that’s what’s expected of me. A sick sense of gratitude or something equally ludicrous. “I heard him on a call,” I say down the line. “He spoke of The Brit and a marina. Black is funding Perry’s political campaign.”
“That’s more like it,” he says, his voice dark and deadly. “Let’s keep up the good work.” He hangs up and his minion turns and walks away, leaving the trolley behind.
I lift the lid from a platter.
And stare at a photograph of a boy. My boy. He’s riding his bike in the park. It’s a reward for my compliance. But then I see him. The black-suited man in clear sight. He’s not alone. He’s not really safe. My boy’s security is an illusion—a reminder that he controls me. And as long as I conform, my son will be safe.
As if I needed reminding of why I’m in this hell.
I fold to the floor and hug my knees, trying to stem the pain. The mental pain.
Chapter 3
DANNY
* * *
It takes me a week to read his will. A week to find the strength. I still haven’t got the strength now, but the half bottle of Scotch has helped.
His coffin should be oak like the doors in our mansion. The inside of the lid should be engraved to match the wooden swirls of his office door. If he’s dead, he wants to stare at his office door when he’s dead. He wants to feel like he’s at home.
He wants me to carry him into the cathedral. Brad, Ringo, Uncle Ernie, and me. I’m to take the front right. He wants the Lord’s prayer to be recited. Twice. Once at the beginning of the service, once at the end. I’m to ensure that every single person in the cathedral says every word. Both times. If they don’t, I’m to put a bullet in their head. I can hear him telling me, “No second chances.” The bastard. God, I miss him.