Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Chapter 7
Valentina
Idon’t sleep that night. I keep waiting for Ronan’s message letting me know that everything went well, but my phone’s frustratingly silent. Midnight comes and goes, and I know they must’ve made their move, but I get nothing, and I know better than to reach out to him. Not when we agreed he’d text.
The sun starts to rise. I take a shower, just to give myself something to do, and I’m drying my hair when I hear someone banging around in the kitchen. I reach under my sink and find the knife I keep there before stepping out into the hallway, but this time I’m not surprised when I find Ronan.
He’s got coffee and bagels again. And also champagne.
“It’s a celebration, baby,” he says, popping the cork.
I stare at him, gripping the knife. “You said you’d text.”
“Texting is for bored housewives. I’m here in the flesh instead.” He pours two glasses. “Let’s toast.”
I glare at the alcohol. The last thing I want to do is drink, but I really, really want to hear how the job went down, so I suck it up, put the knife down, and raise the glass.
“To asking questions first and stabbing later,” I say.
He glances at the knife and beams. “Here’s to that.”
We clink and drink. The bubbles feel nice on my throat, and when he offers more, I reluctantly say yes.
As I have breakfast, he tells me about what happened. Everything went exactly how I thought it would—right up until the part where he shot Sal in the head and took over the business.
I don’t even know what to say. For once in my life, I’m speechless. He seems so fucking proud of himself, but this is absolute madness. “Those guys worked for Sal for years,” I tell him finally, trying to make him understand. “They’re old school, Ronan. There’s no way they’ll be loyal to you.”
He doesn’t seem bothered. “You’d be surprised how cheap loyalty can be these days. Let me worry about the shop, all right? Your plan went off perfectly, and I couldn’t be happier.”
I grind my jaw. He was supposed to rob the place, but if he took over the business—
An idea occurs. I try not to fidget as I think through the implications. “You know, you owe me ten percent of what you took,” I say very casually, like it’s no big deal.
But he’s grinning huge, and the bastard must know where I’m going with this. “I’m true to my word,” he says and points to a duffel bag near the door. “Cash as a little down payment. And from here on out, ten percent of any profits that enter my pockets will be passed along to you. Now, tell me you think I’m lovely, kind, and wonderful.”
“You are none of those things.” I cross my arms, trying not to smile. And failing.
“Ah, come on, baby. I got you an income tonight instead of a single score.”
I hate him. I really do. But he’s right. A big cash infusion is nice and all, but a steady stream of constant payments is much, much better, and if he can actually hold on to the place, I can make some serious money over the long-term.
“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” I mutter.
He laughs and drinks more champagne. “Cheer up. I’m taking care of you.”
That catches my attention. I look at him carefully, but he’s already moving on and talking about the guys that work there—a foreman named Rich, some lower-level grunts named Eduardo and Ignacio—but I’m stuck on what he said about taking care of me.
Why would he think that? But even an idiot would come in here and see my rock bottom. He knows how bad my life has gotten without Marco, and instead of taking advantage of me, he dropped a big, fat present in my lap.
And I’m supposed to trust this?
Everyone has reasons. Sometimes, they don’t even know what they are until they look back in retrospect, but I have a feeling Ronan’s a little more focused than that. Why would he need a new revenue stream? And why would he willingly hand over ten percent to me?
Pity’s one thing. That would drive me crazy.
But what if there’s more happening here?
“I don’t need your charity, you know.” I cross my arms and give him a hard stare. Hopefully, he hasn’t looked too closely at my apartment, because otherwise, he’d know I’m full of shit. I definitely need his charity, or at least I’m very close to needing it.
Except I’m my father’s daughter, and I can’t live with myself if I start accepting handouts.
“I’d say you earned what you’re being given,” he says carefully, still with that knowing, mocking smile.
“What if I offered you more?” I step closer to him. His eyes flit to my lips, down to my throat, down to my chest, and back up again. Brazen and not even trying to hide it. His smile tightens like he’s struggling against something. Did he like what he saw? Does he think I’m attractive?