Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74291 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74291 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Oh, but I’m afraid I do,” he tells me, and then all at once, he hooks my shirt into the blade of his knife and begins cutting. The fabric of my shirt slices in half, exposing my bra. Paul doesn’t stop his knife until he cuts the bra in the same fashion, exposing my breasts. His hand comes up to cup them and I fight against my hold to try and get away. “Well, look at that. I guess you don’t have a wire,” he sneers, his cold fingers moving over my nipple. I’m seconds away from vomiting.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper, wrapping my hands around my breast when the guy behind me finally lets me go.
“I’m afraid I did. Cheer up, Ana. It’s not like I’m the only guy to have touched those fucking tits.”
“What turned you into this… man?” I ask him, forcing myself to use that word because I want to call him a pig—or much, much worse.
“Just make sure you have Roman where you need him. Where is this fucking place anyway?”
“Now I think I’ll take a page out of your playbook. I’ll tell you when it’s time. I don’t want to risk you doing it before I can be there and make sure my brother survives the fight.”
Paul looks me over grudgingly. “Look at that. I might make a cop out of you yet. I want my coke back since you can’t manage to plant the shit.”
“It’s in the old apartment,” I tell him, then mention where he can find it.
I don’t breathe until they leave. Then I sink to the floor and let the tears fall. When this is all over, if I manage to survive, I’m going to kill Paul. I don’t for one second think it will make me feel better, but if ever a man deserved to die, it is him. How I went for so long without seeing the monster beneath amazes me. I’ve seen it now, however, and I will put a bullet into him without blinking.
It takes me another ten minutes before I can finally pull myself together. I look around the small room. There’s a few t-shirts with the place’s name emblazoned on them. I yank off my ruined clothes, throw them in the trash, then pull a t-shirt on, wondering if I’ll get arrested for theft before I can get out of this fucking place. That would cap off a perfect day.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Roman
Something is going on with Ana. I’m not sure what it is, but for the last three days, she’s withdrawn and seems to be somewhere else. The only time I feel she’s even halfway with me is when we’re fucking. I’ll have to figure it out, but I can’t right now. There’s too much shit going down.
We’re standing by the grave of one of the few men I considered a friend, listening to some preacher go on about finding a better life in another world. It sounds lame to my ears. The world is a cold, dark place, and having Joe gone just makes it more so. The only warmth in my life is the woman standing beside me right now, crying. I wrap my arm around her, pulling her into me. She buries her face in my chest and I kiss the top of her head, wishing I could take away her pain—fuck, wishing I could take my own. It’s my fault Joe is being buried. He was killed to send me a message, a message I received loud and clear, and one I’m going to deliver twofold on that sorry fuck, Paul Banks.
I have a meeting with Kuzma tonight. I hesitated to go this route, but the old adage “go big or go home” seemed apt. I’m going to make Banks sorry he was ever born. Big Joe deserves that.
The graveside service ends. Ana and I each place a rose on top of the coffin and start walking back to the limo. Robert is standing by the vehicle waiting, and I have two of my best security detail walking behind me. I can’t take a chance with Ana’s safety. We’re almost to the car when Banks and four others get out of a white sedan across from my limo. Ana goes rigid in my arms, and with good reason. I can tell Banks is up to no good, and dealing with him is the last fucking thing I want to do.
“Banks. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Can’t a man pay his respects?” he asks with a cocky look on his sullen face. I clench my hand into a fist and it takes all I have not to level him. The bastard is baiting me. I can see it, and I keep my face unreadable.
“A man probably could. Still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I tell him, the barb subtle but pretty fucking clear. I know he understands; it shows in his face.