Series: The Rossi Crime Family Series by J.L. Beck
Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
She looks at me with fear in her eyes, her body trembling. It bothers me, but not enough for me to stop myself from pulling my gun out. I'm not fond of killing women, but I do what needs to be done.
“Who the fuck is your brother?” I snarl. My body is still impossibly close to hers. If she tries to escape, I’ll have my hand wrapped around her throat in a second.
I watch her face. Her lips quiver. There is no way she is the sister of one of my men. No one who is affiliated with us gets this terrified over a simple question. But then again, I’ve seen grown ass men piss their pants dealing with me.
“Are you fucking deaf?” I press the barrel of the gun into her side, right between her ribs. If I pull the trigger, she’ll die. There's no way around it.
“Puh...puh…please don't.” Tears stain her cheeks.
I lean closer, smelling her fear, but beneath it, I get a whiff of strawberry. It’s faint, barely there, but it makes my mouth water. I suddenly have the ridiculous urge to kiss her.
What the fuck?
I don’t kiss. I don’t cuddle. I don’t do dates. I don’t do shit that could possibly lead to anyone thinking I like a girl for anything other than the hole between her legs.
But this girl…she has me intrigued. She’s different from the girls I usually have at my mercy.
She also still hasn’t told me who her fucking brother is, and that's pissing me the hell off. I ask a question, I get a fucking answer.
“I’m not used to asking twice so you better give me a fucking answer now before I blow your brains all over my office.”
“Le...Le...Leo is…w-w-was my brother. He…he’s dead.”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Leo told me about his little sister a while back. I don’t know much about her, but I do know she knows nothing about the shit her brother was caught up in. He asked me watch out for her incase something bad happened. And promising to watch out for her was the only way I could get him to do some of the more risky drops. I didn't think that promise would actually show up in my office one day.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with her? She is not my responsibility. So what if I told him I'd look after her. It's not like her brother is going to come back to life to see if I kept my promise.
I move toward my desk. Sinking into the leather chair, I prop my feet up on the edge, and order, “Pull your pants back up.” I can't have a half-naked girl in my office and not fuck her. I’m already going to have blue balls as it is. Maybe I’ll take that new stripper for a test ride…what's her name? Amanda? Anna?
My attention shifts back to the present. Kiera…or Kilie, I think is her name. She sits very still for a long moment, and I worry maybe she didn't hear me. She's not gonna last one fucking day here if she doesn't learn to do as she's told when she’s told.
I bite my tongue, stopping myself from saying anything else. It's not something I do often, and I'm not really sure why I do it for her. The girl finally scurries to get her pants back on, then grabs her backpack off the chair and heads for the door.
I almost snap. God, she’s a pain in the ass.
“I don’t remember saying you could leave.” She stops dead in her tracks, and I smirk. It’s fun to know I have some type of control over her.
“Sit your ass back down. We’re done when I say we’re done.” I can see her legs shake from across the room, and wouldn't be surprised if they gave out, sending her plump ass to the floor.
She wears her emotions on her face. She’s weak. Filled to the brim with fear—and over what? I’ve watched many of my men die, have killed people who didn’t really deserve it, and I never felt a single drop of remorse.
So why the fuck am I feeling sorry for her?
“How do you know he’s dead?” My gaze turns to slits.
“I found him,” she says, her voice shaky. Her brown eyes refuse to meet mine, and that’s infuriating. A person’s eyes are the portal to their soul. How can I be sure she is telling me the truth if she refuses to look me in the eye?
“I found him in my apartment,” she finishes, visibly swallowing.
“Did you call the cops?” I ask, and this time when she looks at me, her brown eyes go wide and she shakes her head. At least she wasn’t dumb enough to phone them. “Write your address down.” I throw her a pen and piece of paper and watch her scribble something down. When she’s done, she gets up to hand me the items, but her hands are so damn shaky, she drops the pen.