Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Her jaw drops. “Seriously? You don’t even know me, I had a lot to drink, and I was just thinking—”
I toss my hand up, silencing her. “But, I do know you, Shauna. You’re looking for a project, you’re thinking you can fix me. You want to hold the mighty DeAngelo’s hand through Central Park and show him off to all your gal pals over brunch. You want every photo opportunity at my side.” Her perfect brows pinch together as she snatches her purse from the couch. She doesn’t want me for me, she wants the name. I don’t blame her, the DeAngelo name is powerful and dangerous. Many have died in the wake of my last name, and many stand beside it to honor its strength.
“For your information, my friends would never like you. You’re an asshole.” She tries to insult, but she isn’t wrong, and frankly I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of me, much less her so-called friends.
I might be an asshole, but it’s only because I say what’s on my mind, and don’t lie. People want the truth, but they can’t handle it. Therefore, I’m the asshole.
Slipping her feet into her red heels, she heads for the door. Thank God.
“Shauna, next time you climb in a bed for fifteen minutes of fame, you should think about the monster beside you. The way that man is able to make you come alive with a mere touch of his hands, the very hands that are tainted in blood.” A hardened look across my face with a devious smile, I tilt my head to the side. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”
Should I have sent her away like this? Probably not, but do I care? Not a single bit.
Opening the door, she flips me off, and I silently laugh at how childish she’s being before she slams it shut. Because giving me the finger changes anything. She’s a clever one.
“Well, we will make sure and check Shauna off our fuck list,” I mutter before taking another smooth sip of my whiskey. Looking out onto the city that comes alive at night. I can feel the excitement in my bones, it’s going to be a good night.
My eyes flick to the clock on the stove that sits in the small kitchen to my right, it’s past midnight. Pops will be wondering where I am.
Setting my whiskey down, I head to my closet and pull out an Armani suit. Buttoning it up I lift my chin so I can fold down the collar, most of my tattoos are covered except the ones on my hands. My body a canvas of exquisite art both beautiful and bold.
Shutting the closet door, I make a mental note to text my house cleaner to wash the sheets. She comes and cleans at night, so when I arrive early in the morning I can climb into a clean bed. It doesn’t take her long to clean the place.
It’s a remodeled loft, new hardwood floors, gray painted walls with new light fixtures and appliances. There are no rooms divided by walls or doors, it’s just one big open space, besides the bathroom that is, that has its own room. But what really sold me on the place, was the pizza restaurant three floors down. It’s open twenty-four-seven, and I’ve come to know the owner quite well.
He’s older and still living in the eighties. His kitchen wasn’t up to code and he couldn’t afford to upgrade. Lucky for him I love his pizza and don’t want some fucking coffee place with a bunch of hipster bastards with their laptops coming in and out of the place, I knew a guy that passes his inspections and keeps him open. Of course he now owes me ten percent of his monthly profit for my help. He’s a good guy, it’s not personal, it’s just business.
A very important rule my father taught me is you can’t let your feelings get in the way of success, otherwise the other person gets what they want and they succeed.
They win, and you lose.
I never lose.
I snatch my phone and watch off the nightstand and grab a slice of pizza before heading to the yacht where my dad spends most of his evenings.
Slipping myself into my sexy BMW coupe, my body is cocooned by the soft leather, the smell of “New Car” still present, I start the engine and pull out of the garage located behind my apartment building. I keep the music off, the sound of silence enough for my ears as I move through the streets like fine silk all the way to the docks that align the Hudson River. We own a yacht that is modest compared to some celebrities that dock nearby, but big enough to house the DeAngelos when we need it.