Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Ling’s anxious expression softens. She raises her hand and gently cups my jaw, running her thumb over it. “Julius, you’re one of the only friends I have, and I would do almost anything for you.” Her emphasis on “almost” is more than apparent. Dropping her hand from my cheek, she takes a step back, away from me. Her eyes turn frigid, and her mouth sets in a grim line as she adds menacingly, “But I will not die for you.”
Her heels click away, and left to my own devices, I lower myself to the sofa, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.
She’ll go quickly. Quietly… It doesn’t matter
Yet, it matters to me.
Why does it fucking matter to me?
My grave expression quickly turning to one of hostility, my eyes hood as my jaw sets.
Alejandra Gambino will tell me everything I need to know. She will talk.
I will do whatever I need to make that happen.
Ling is right.
I am not going to die for a frail, useless slip of a woman.
The young woman lying asleep on the bed never even hears me enter. With the stealth of a snake and gracefulness of a feline, I work my way soundlessly into the center of the room.
Amongst our circle, I have earned quite a few titles in my years with Julius.
Black widow. Last look. Chinese Cinderella.
I have earned these names by being the ruthless bitch I am. I might be small and sexy, but I am not delicate. I may arguably be the most dangerous woman in the world.
Why?
Because I’m unassuming.
Don’t ever mistake my femininity as weakness. I will slit your motherfucking throat while reapplying lipstick.
A word to the wise… Don’t always trust what you see. After all, even salt looks like sugar.
Chinese Cinderella, I silently scoff. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost skinned a dick over some asshole calling me Chinese.
Stupid American redneck fucks take one look at me and say, “Oh, she’s Asian. She must be Chinese.”
I’m goddamn Vietnamese, motherfuckers. Take note or lose a limb.
In this minute of relaxed reprieve, I take Alejandra in, my expression turning semi-sympathetic at the thought of what she could have possibly experienced to make her have terrors almost as bad as mine.
With her back to me, my eyes travel down the length of her. Petite, too slim, with long, black matted hair. Dirty, ripped clothing and a frayed bandage on her heel.
I mentally snicker.
She’s pathetic.
I don’t know why that makes me happy, but it does. I never could make friends with pretty girls. But then I think about how terrified she was…
My face hardens and my lip curls. It takes all my will to silence the vicious growl threatening to escape my burning throat.
It’s hardly my problem. What does she know about pain? It can’t be worse than what my family did to me.
After all, no one cared when my father and brothers…
Don’t you do it, girl. Don’t you dare go there.
My emotions on high, I close my eyes and inhale deeply, exhaling slowly, begging for the return of my calm.
It takes a second to realize I’ve let my guard down. Then, without turning, she speaks quietly. “Are you going to kill me?”
Her meek voice startles me. The .22-caliber pistol in my hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. I grip it tighter, and it takes me a while, but I finally respond a hardhearted, “Yes.”
Her body stiffens a moment before she relaxes, snuggling into the pillow. Her voice carries an edge of relief as she whispers, “Good. Thanks.”
The fight I had anticipated—that I craved—has been taken from me by those two softly spoken words.
What the hell is wrong with this picture?
Her words surprise me, and although she unknowingly made this very easy for me, I love when people beg for their lives. The kneeling, the groveling, I especially like it when they kiss my designer pumps before I boot them so hard in their mouths that they see stars.
Killing someone who wants to die… where’s the fun in that?
I raise the gun and take aim, but as my finger rests on the trigger, I huff out a sigh, loosen my grip, lose focus and lower the pistol with precise slowness. Never being one to respect a person’s space, I move to sit on the bed, right next to Alejandra.
She half turns to look at me, blinking back tears, silently mourning her short life, and I ask, “Do you want to die?”
Rather than answer me, she looks at my swollen face and mutters, “I really am sorry about your nose,” promptly turning her back to me once again.
Ugh. I hate a suckass.
“I asked you a question.” I do not like being ignored.
When the length of her pause is too long and I open my mouth to tear her apart with a string of insults, she sighs long and low. “Vito wants me dead. His sons, Gio and Luc, want me dead. My father will do whatever Vito asks, including presenting his daughter’s head on a silver platter. There is no one who can help me now. I am well and truly fucked.”