Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
One: He never brings a woman back to his place. No matter who the flavor of the month is, he only ever goes to their place, and he never stays the night.
Two: He is particular in the sense that if I were to move a picture frame a quarter of an inch from where he placed it, he’d probably quite literally kill me for it. Everything has an orderly place and purpose.
Three: He’s as lethal about his dealings in business as the rumors say. I’ve watched him murder so many people for far less than adjusting his figuratively perfectly placed picture frame.
He removes his black suit jacket, the bulges and indents of his muscles flexing under his crisp, clean white shirt. He’s also covered in tattoos. Tattoos you don’t ordinarily see with the long-sleeved shirts covering them unless he rolls up the sleeves or unbuttons his shirt. He has none on his neck or hands, unlike his weird-ass friend Hawke.
If I didn’t have to kill him, I would find him very attractive. But I know better than to take an interest in my targets.
Play with him. And when I give the order… end him. That was the request by my anonymous client.
So that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s not how I usually do things, but I couldn’t say no to the money offered. I get paid a lot to kill people, but to play with Eli Monti, I get triple my standard price.
The money for this job is fair, considering the risk I take by not having the element of surprise. But it’s what makes it thrilling as well.
My screen lights up with a new text message—another directive from my client.
Anonymous Number: Be at this event at 8 pm sharp. Masquerade.
It’s not uncommon for hits to be made anonymously, and I don’t have enough ethics or morals to care about who I’m killing, why, or who hired me when the money is deposited in my account.
I huff, irritated at the short notice and the fact that I’ll have to cancel my shift tonight at the restaurant. Not that I really give a fuck about that job.
More importantly, what am I going to wear? I ponder that as I pull out my pretty gold credit card. I mean, I suppose a beautiful dress is considered a work expense, right?
I smile and throw off the towel.
So, playing with Eli Monti is what I will do.
Until the time comes for me to kill him
CHAPTER 3
Eli
My father stares down at his messenger with disdain. Blood pools around the man’s head, and I continue to focus on my laptop screen as if nothing has gone amiss. The tension is palpable, primarily because of the thick file the messenger left at the edge of the desk.
“You know your mother doesn’t like it when you get blood on the floors,” my father scolds angrily. My scathing glare reaches his dark eyes, and we remain like that, the clock ticking ever so loudly through my parents’ office.
Crue Monti is almost sixty-two years old, but he looks good. A few strands of silver shoot through his black hair, and his dark and depthless eyes, are just as mesmerizing now as they were when he was younger. People are either too stunned to look away from him, frightened by what he might do next, or avert their gaze immediately, submissively—their survival instincts kicking in.
I don’t fear my father. I love him. Our bond is just a little different from most.
“Hawke. Ford. Come and clean up this mess,” my father barks at my men standing outside the room.
“Yes, sir,” Hawke says merrily as he all but skips in, an obvious screw loose. Ford silently follows.
“They don’t answer to you,” I grit out.
My father arches an eyebrow, and a smirk creeps onto his face. “You’re in my house, son. Everyone in this house listens to me. And until you take over the business, I own every one of the lackeys you choose to hire.”
“To be more accurate, sir, we’re more like best friends,” Hawke says.
“I apologize. My brother never knows when to hold his tongue,” Ford adds.
I sigh and look away, my irritation growing. These fucking idiots. My father tolerates them, not like my mother, who has basically adopted them, but he’s accepted that they’re like annoying flies that won’t go away.
Father takes a seat across from me. “Would you like to explain why you killed one of my men and haven’t yet opened the file I specifically asked him to hand you?”
“I’m not going to marry any of these women.” I glare at the file as if it’ll scorch my skin even to pick it up.
I fucking refuse.
“There’s nothing wrong with an arranged marriage. That’s how your mother and I met,” he says calmly, with a tone I know is anything but. It’s only because my mother is somewhere in the house that he’s on his best behavior. Lord forbid he gets in trouble because of me. Again.