Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
"It's going well?"
"It'd go a whole lot better if you'd get the fuck out of my office and stop hounding me like an old lady asking when she's getting fucking grandkids," I say dryly.
He smirks at me, unoffended. It takes a lot to offend a man like Mattia. "Then get your head out of your ass and stop avoiding your brothers. You can say it's work-related all you want, but I know bullshit when I smell it, Valentino."
"Get vapor rub. You're surrounded by it."
"Cristo. When did you turn into such an asshole?"
It's an excellent question, though I doubt he'd like the answer.
"Call your brothers," Mattia says, shaking his head as he strolls toward the door. "They shouldn't have to worry about you because life got tough, and you checked out. You took the vow. Deal with it, Gabriel."
"Fuck you, Mattia."
"You aren't my type."
"You don't have a type!" I shout after him.
He lifts his hand over his head, flashing his middle finger in the air.
I actually smile for the first time all day. The bastard.
Chapter Two
Genesis
"Girl."
I lift my eyes from the broom, glancing at the older lady standing with her hands on her ample hips and a scowl on her worn face. Lydia Kaplan, the harshest taskmaster I've ever met. "Yes, ma'am?"
"You're supposed to be upstairs in the executive offices, not down here playing with the broom." Lydia thrusts her finger toward the elevators. "We ain't got all night to get this place clean."
I bite back the immediate desire to tell her where she can stick the broom and paste a bright smile on my face instead. "Sorry, Ms. Lydia."
"I don't need your apologies, girl. I need you to do your job."
Girl.
I've lived with Lydia for the last year, but she still calls me girl instead of my name, as if learning it is too much of a hassle. I'm not sure why she even took me in when I fled home. It wasn't affection or pity.
She doesn't even like me. But she gave me a job at her cleaning company and a roof over my head...one where I've been safe from the monster hunting me.
I shiver at the memory of stale cigar smoke and black eyes leering at me. Alexander Santorum, my biggest nightmare. The man who killed my father to gain control of me.
"Of course." I prop the broom against the cleaning cart, grab the vacuum, and make a beeline for the elevators.
I feel Lydia's heavy gaze on me until the elevator doors close behind me. I ride up to the top floor of Valentino International in silence, feeling out of sorts.
Thinking about Alexander usually evokes that feeling. The man is an evil toad. He thinks because he's rich and powerful that he can just take what he wants. Well, not me. I'm not for sale. I won't be owned. Not by him or anyone else.
"Never by him," I vow to myself, hot tears pressing against the backs of my eyes. I battle them back, refusing to let them fall. I've cried far too many tears over my sad lot in life since Alexander murdered my dad in cold blood.
He never paid for the crime. Men like him rarely pay for their sins and excesses. The world turns a blind eye, pretending not to see the horrors they commit.
They're seen as better than us, placed on a pedestal far out of reach. I guess it happens when you're in charge of the men who enforce the law.
The elevator glides to a stop on the top floor. The doors slide open, revealing the sort of ostentatious wealth that makes my stomach hurt. You know, the kind that could feed half the world, but is spent building glass castles like this for despotic kings instead.
The kings who work from this glass castle are rumored to be some of the worst. They're mafia, Made men. The entire city loses sleep over them and their whims. Yet I never have. When you're trying to survive the devil you know, it's hard to care about the devils you don't.
I drag my bucket off the elevator and set to work emptying the trash. It takes all of five minutes to clean up after the reception staff. Two of the executive offices are spotless, as if they're rarely used. The desks hold no personal items, nothing to give any hint about the men who work within.
I finish straightening them quickly and move to the third.
A masculine, woodsy scent drifts through the open doors. My legs tremble as it swirls around me, wrapping me in the sensuous scent.
I grasp onto the door frame, my stomach quivering. The office feels...different. Warm, maybe. As if someone left the heat on inside even though cool air blows from the vents overhead.
Is someone here?
There's no one inside, but it doesn't feel empty. Merely as if whoever works within stepped out for a moment. A lamp on the desk still burns. A pen still rests on a stack of folders.