Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“It’s unbecoming for a woman to sit in a man’s lap at the dinner table,” Chiara finally signed to her daughter.
Lila flashed her a slow provocative smile. “He’s not just any man, Mama. He is my husband. I’m sure everyone at the table already knows he fucks me senseless every night.”
“What a terrible day to have eyes.” Enzo gagged on a piece of bread, coughing it into his fist. “Why did I go straight to the naughty parts when I started learning ASL?”
“Because you’re a pervert?” Luca offered indifferently.
“Because you’re mentally eleven,” Achilles guessed in unison.
“Wait, what did she sign?” Luca frowned.
Enzo rolled his eyes. “Put more time and effort into your ASL studies and find out, stronzi.”
Vello looked like he was about to expire on his lasagna.
“How dare you speak to me that way, and under my own roof?” Chiara’s dark eyes singed like two burning coals.
“Did I do you a disservice?” Lila cocked her head, blinking innocently. “Doesn’t feel very nice, does it? Imagine what the last eighteen years have been like for me.”
“Burn.” Enzo coughed into his fist.
“Sign slower. I’m trying to translate all of this into English.” Luca scrolled on his phone, glowering.
“Maybe it’s best if we switch to another topic,” Francesca Keaton suggested cordially.
“Agreed.” Enzo shoveled food down his throat, turning to the president. “Dude, isn’t your wife, like, fifteen years your junior?”
Jesus. The Ferrantes were a right mess. And here I thought my family was fucked up.
Keaton pinned Enzo with a look that could decimate armies. “Didn’t your big brother fuck your ex-girlfriend?” he retorted.
Achilles grinned behind his glass of wine. “She called him mid-act to dump him, I dicked her so good.”
“You did have an unfair advantage, Achilles.” Tierney raised her champagne in a toast. “Dick is your entire personality.”
At this point, Vello decided the best course of action was to start a new conversation. One in a language everybody spoke, and not about his children’s sex lives.
“President Keaton. It appears we have an…insect problem in this house.” The don cleared his throat emphatically. His way of informing him that the place was bugged.
“That’s quite unfortunate.” Keaton sat back, one arm flung over the back of his wife’s chair.
Francesca Rossi was a mother of three. Charitable, beautiful, and the most popular First Lady in the last twenty years. She was also the subject of many hit pieces in the media. Partly because she married her husband when she was a teen and he was in his thirties. But mostly because she was a Mafia princess.
The Keatons never denied their affiliation with the Chicago Outfit. Oftentimes, Keaton would strike deals with less-than-reputable fellas to get his way. We had one together, in which I cleaned Hunts Point’s streets of sex workers, instead opening off-the-grid brothels where employees were tested for drugs and STIs and got steady, fair pay under the table.
Overall, the American people were happy. The economy was strong, crime rate was relatively low, and the world wasn’t on fucking fire.
“What can be done about that?” Vello asked, while Lila artfully dropped her own fork. She bent to get it, grinding her pussy along my dick through our clothes.
My pulse drummed across the side of my neck.
I was very close to losing our little game.
Too bad I never lost, and an eighteen-year-old girl—no matter how pretty, how enticing, how good with a needle, a pistol, a cock—couldn’t change that.
“Not much.” Wolfe sat back, not an ounce of apology in his voice. He was playing with a lock of his wife’s brunette hair, and it sickened me, how other men pretended other women were attractive when my wife was in the room. “Have you tried pest control?”
He meant, of course, people like Brennan. Former fixers, sometimes dirty feds, whose sole job now was working for the likes of Vello and myself to ensure our places weren’t bugged.
“I did. They’re all useless.” Vello picked up his wine glass, staring into the crimson liquid. “I rather hoped you could…”
Wolfe tilted an eyebrow.
“Exterminate the type of insect plaguing my house.”
Wolfe’s mouth pinched in barely contained amusement.
“While history rewards high-risk presidents, I’m not dumb enough to test that theory by telling the head of the FBI how to conduct his business,” Keaton said outright.
Luca gave the president a flat stare. “Throw us a bone here.”
“You’re asking for an entire damn skeleton,” Wolfe’s lilt sharpened like a knife’s edge.
His wife put her hand on his. His expression softened immediately.
“I will, however, suggest you look into a different couch in the drawing room,” Wolfe’s voice dropped an octave. “The current one doesn’t complement the curtains. And maybe freshen up all those chess pieces in your office.”
A satisfied smile pulled at the don’s lips. “What excellent suggestions. Our place could use a little facelift.”
“You’d need to burn the entire motherfucking house, and it’d still be distasteful,” I muttered into my drink.