Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Maybe they are trained military. Would make sense.
Fuck.
Logic tells me the only person they’d stand for is their boss, and I haven’t seen him up to this point. He walks in the room, his heels clicking on the floor, and I breathe a little easier. The guy’s fucking ancient, walking with a hobble and a cane, even if he’s dressed as if he’s about to go to a Broadway show. Impeccably clean, three-piece suit, shined leather shoes. I’m wearing threadbare, soiled clothes, my feet are bare, and I’ve got a beard that would challenge Rip Van Winkle. He probably likes it that way. Imbalance of power or whatever the fuck.
Still, a man his age can’t fight the way these other motherfuckers can, and that’s a plus. Doesn’t mean he can’t pull a trigger on a gun, though.
“Mr. Montavio,” he says in a gravelly voice, sitting beside me. His face is creased with wrinkles, and I detect the faintest trace of an accent. Probably been in America for decades. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ah, so he’s one of those guys. Professional, reserved, takes his job seriously and expects his men to do the same. The type that would slit your throat with casual efficiency, step back so the blood wouldn’t splash on his shoes, then wash his hands and take his wife out to dinner. Contrary to how they appear, they tend to be the most ruthless sort, so driven by their unwavering need to get what they want, there’s not one fucking line they won’t cross.
Shit’s about to go down.
I take a quick inventory of my body. Pain in my back where the assholes beat me with a fucking nightstick. That pain in my right arm, which I’m convinced is from a break that was never set. Constant pain in my head from chronic dehydration and whatever fucking meds they give me.
Eh. Nothing I can’t fight through. All I need is one chance, one opportunity…
“Looking good, boss,” I say brightly, not because I’m in any kinda good mood, but because this asshole needs to know he hasn’t bested me.
Sitting beside me, he steeples his fingers together. “There’s been an interesting new development.”
My pulse spikes and my mind races. Sergio’s been killed, Adriano’s in jail, Ricco’s found me… thank fuck nothing they can use against me involves Starla. They have no idea who she is.
“Yeah?” I pretend to yawn. “What’s that?”
“We’re considering allowing you to go home.”
I hear the words but don’t process the sentiment behind them.
Home.
There’s no fucking way these men are allowing me to go home without conditions and the threat of very, very serious consequences. I pretend I’m not hoping, that I’m not holding my breath for the rest of his story.
“Yeah? Why’s that?” I try to keep my voice nonchalant but fail miserably, at least to my own ears.
I watch as he takes out his phone and flicks through it. Responding to messages? Checking his email? Maybe the fact that I’m a prisoner sitting next to him holding my breath doesn’t even ping his radar.
“Oh, there will be conditions, of course.”
Of fucking course. There always are. I wait for him to continue.
“Aren’t you curious, Mr. Montavio?”
I lick my lips and shrug. “Sure.”
It’s fucking killing me.
He jerks his head at his crew, who silently get to their feet and circle me.
What the fuck? They're afraid I’m gonna try to kick his ass or something?
“You’ll go back home, Mr. Montavio. You’ll pretend you remember nothing of where you were or who you saw. We’ll get a notice to you about a secure location where you’ll find a burner phone you’ll use to communicate with us—”
As he starts to lay out the terms of our agreement, I’m already laughing.
“Right, yeah, you guys are smart enough to know that asking me to spy on my family and report back to you means that I would rather die first. Kill me now. I’ll bare my fucking neck. If you think that for one second—”
I stop talking when he shows me his phone screen.
Rage, like red hot lava, spews into my veins. “You motherfucking son of a whore,” I seethe. One of the men slaps my face for daring to disrespect his boss, but I don’t even feel it. As soon as he gets near me, I kick my foot out and nail him in the balls. Screaming, he falls to the ground and grabs his crotch.
“You fucking goddamn assholes. Let me out of here! You fucking undo me! If you motherfucking assholes don’t, you—”
Another one comes at me, but I use both feet, rear back, and kick him so hard in the chest he falls into one of his cronies. Starve a man and put him in solitary confinement, all he fucking has to do is turn what’s left of his body into muscle.