Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
All goes according to plan… Until I get a taste of her sharp tongue and a look at her wicked curves. It doesn’t take long for me to realize she might be more than the spoiled little brat I’d been sent to collect.
But wanting her for myself creates more danger. Olivia is in the crosshairs, and my father’s finger is on the trigger. Saving her means betraying my family, but maybe it’s time I start a family of my own–with her.
What’s a villain to do?
MINK’s Note: Grab your fluffy friend and your fave flavor coffee for this tale of a villain and his love.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
SERGEI
Of all the jobs my father has given me, this has to be the easiest. Kidnapping a Fernandino princess won’t take much skill, especially since every Fernandino heir is nothing more than a useless, scheming debutante. Olivia Fernandino will be no different–sheltered, spoiled, and rotten to her core.
She’s lucky I only intend to steal her. I’d love to get my hands on her–or any of her kin, for that matter–to do what needs to be done. We should’ve wiped them out years ago. Their bones should be nothing more than dirt beneath my shoes. But we’ve had to bide our time. The families don’t condone open warfare. Not anymore. Changing times, changing alliances. No more blood on our hands or names in bold headlines.
At least, that was the way of things until my father became head of the families. Now? Now things are going back to the way they’re supposed to be. The Fernandinos will pay for everything they’ve done, everything they are. And the first victim will be their youngest. Silly little Olivia Fernandino. I smirk when I think about how she’ll cry and beg and run. A coward, just like the rest of them.
But it’s not my job to break her. My father wants to do the honors.
I pull into the parking lot of a country club at the edge of the city. Every other vehicle in the lot is a Rover or a Maserati. I suppose the wealthy like to slum it when they come to play golf. Can’t have a golf ball leaving a dent in their Lambos.
A valet runs up as I step from my car.
“It’s valet only, sir. I’m sorry, but–”
I toss him a roll of bills. “Mind your own business and stay out of my way.”
His eyes widen as he stares at the money. “Y-yes sir.”
I wince at the sunlight pouring down all over the green grass and flowering trees. As a matter of business, I work at night. Daytime isn’t something I’m used to, not when there’s so much money to be made in the dark hours. Clubs, drugs, guns–all the good shit happens when the sun fucks off.
Striding into the club, I make no effort to hide my face from the cameras or the staff. It doesn’t matter. I’m untouchable. Even if I brought a blow torch up in this bitch and started lighting the place on fire, I’d still walk away with nothing on me. Not so much as a finger laid on me by the cops. Because we own them. We own everything in this city… except the Fernandinos. The bastards who pretend to be fine, upstanding citizens with legitimate wealth and a philanthropy budget bigger than some countries’ GDP. Bullshit, all of it. No one in this business is good. No one. Especially not me.
“Sir.” An attendant steps into my path as I walk past the pro shop and head toward the dining rooms. “I’m sorry, but if you aren’t a member, are you a guest of someone I could–”
I grab his shirt, wrapping it in my fist and yanking him off his feet.
He yelps.
“Get the fuck out of my way.” I shove him back.
He bounces against the wall and falls to his knees, then scurries away from me.
I keep going, past the rich pricks in the dining room enjoying their afternoon drinks while talking about some vapid shit like taxes or politics. They barely look up as I pass. Far too self-involved to appreciate the danger that just walked into their little enclave. They’ll figure it out soon enough.
The back banquet room is closed, and women’s voices carry from inside. Laughing. I bet one of these rich little bitches told an absolutely hilarious joke. The punchline was probably something like ‘the poors, ha ha ha.’
My disdain for these country club types is eclipsed only by my hatred of the Fernandinos. I grip the handles to the French doors and pull, opening them wide as I stride into the banquet room. It’s done up in shades of yellow and pink, large bouquets of flowers gracing every table where dozens of women turn and stare at me, their voices dying into an eerie quiet.
Gina, the eldest Fernandino daughter, stands from her spot at the head table, her pregnant belly obvious in her flowy dress. “I think you have the wrong room.”
My gaze flicks to the girl beside her, a dark-haired beauty with luminous eyes and a curious expression on her face. She clearly thinks I’m mistaken, just like her sister does.
I stride down the length of the table and come to where they’re sitting.
Gina swallows hard. Olivia gets to her feet and scoots around her sister, blocking Gina, putting herself in front of me. Her light pink dress hugs her body, showing me curves and olive skin. She seems to almost bow up, her shoulders back as she meets my gaze. I have to admit, it’s a brave move, especially given the fact that I tower over both of them. Then again, she’s a Fernandino, so it might simply be stupidity instead of bravery.