Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
The idea of her swelling soon, getting round and full thanks to the life I put inside her, only heightens my craving for her. She has no idea what she's in for as the months go on. I'm going to be insatiable.
We stand at the counter while we eat roast beef sandwiches, talking about nothing too significant for once. “I can’t wait until football season starts,” Romero mumbles around his food. “I miss having something to do on Sunday afternoon.”
“You could always get a hobby,” I point out.
He snorts. “Right. Since when do I have time for hobbies? I think you have me confused with somebody who doesn’t work morning, noon, and night.”
I’m about to suggest he take a little time for himself once the Amanda situation is settled when his phone goes off. An instant later, mine does the same.
It's almost shameful how quickly I pull the device from my pocket, my heart skipping a beat in anticipation of Bianca's reply.
That isn't what I find, though. “What the hell?” Romero mutters, reading his own message.
“Fuck around and find out,” I mumble, dazed by the text message. “There's a crate waiting for you at your 8th Street warehouse.”
“Mine says the same,” Romero confirms. We look up from our phones, staring at each other for one breathless beat. Fuck. The inky feeling of dread consumes me.
I'm out of the room the next second, with Romero on my heels. His sharp whistle catches the attention of three men patrolling the halls, all of whom jog to catch up. “8th Street warehouse,” he barks, directing them to their cars once we’re outside. Meanwhile, I call Bianca and listen as her phone rings and rings. Pick up. Pick up, damn it.
Once her voicemail picks up, I have to wait for her cheerful greeting to end before being as careful as I can to not scare her if she is, in fact, sitting in a restaurant with Tatum. “Call me as soon as you get this,” I speak softly while Romero gets behind the wheel with me in the passenger seat. “It's very important. Just please, let me know you're alright.”
I call Tatum as we race down the driveway. Once again, I'm greeted by a voicemail recording. “Call me right away.” It all feels so pointless. There's no way of knowing for sure the girls are involved, but instinct won't let me dismiss the idea.
Romero tears through the night, ignoring the speed limit, flying down residential streets at a speed that would curdle my blood under any other circumstances. Now? “Faster,” I mutter, returning to that original text. Fuck around and find out.
Who the hell could this be?
When I try to send a text in response, it goes undelivered. The number comes up as ID Blocked. No surprise.
“I'm wondering if we should have brought more men,” he grunts, swerving around a slow-moving minivan. A glimpse at the passenger side mirror reveals the car behind us, matching our speed, following Romero's every move.
“Between the five of us, if we can't handle it, then we have bigger problems.”
“What if this is all a way of drawing us out? Whoever is behind this would know I'd come on the run.”
“Do you want to take that chance?” He glances away from the road to stare at me for a moment. “We can always call for more backup.”
“By the time they get there, what point would it make?” We're already halfway there as it is. “I don't want to wait for them.”
Besides, this doesn't feel like an attack is imminent. It feels more like the attack has already taken place, I'm afraid. I don’t want to think about what we might discover when we arrive. Don't let it be Bianca. Don't let it be Tatum. Please, God, I know I haven't had much use for you in the past, but don't take out my wrongdoings on them. Don't take it out on my children, my love.
Instead of calling for backup, Romero hands me his phone. “There's a contact in there for the warehouse. Call it. We always have guys guarding the doors.” Of course. I'm so fucking beside myself I can't think straight.
The constriction in my chest only worsens with every ring that goes unanswered. Something is very wrong; I can feel it deep in my bones.
A handful of cars are parked outside the warehouse, and as we roll through the open gate, I recognize a few belonging to the men assigned to guard this warehouse. The others must belong to the guys who work down here.
He parks our car yards away, and we both arm ourselves, the second car full of my guys pulling in behind us. Romero steps out, standing behind his door for cover, gesturing for the men to check out the situation. All I can do is stare at the door leading into the warehouse while my heart pounds hard enough to drown out every other sound. I have to go in there, I can't wait, but I need to be smart, too. What if Bianca is in there? But what if she isn't, and she's left raising a child alone because I walked into a trap? Think smart Callum.