Son of Saint (The Savage Heirs #1) Read Online Ruby Vincent

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Crime, Erotic, Mafia, Romance Tags Authors: Series: The Savage Heirs Series by Ruby Vincent
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Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
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“Whoever this guy is, he’s definitely not shelter-challenged like us. This outfit is a Camden Caddell. It retails at two thousand. Even the knockoffs are expensive,” I said.

“And who said a fashion degree had no practical use?”

I snorted. “My empty bank account would if I had even that anymore. I hope River’s got a way to bring him to their doctor, or the doc will come to us. We took a risk moving him. We can’t do it again. Will you be okay by yourself?”

“If one of Digger’s guys saw us lugging him in, they’d have busted in by now. I’ll be fine. Go.”

I didn’t need her to tell me twice. I wasted enough time. The one thing this guy didn’t have.

I stripped off my jacket, rags masquerading as a shirt, and my pants. Our new friend was tall, so his hem hit my knees and turned into a shirt dress. His jacket swallowed me up, filling my nose with cardamom, orange blossom, and nutmeg. Only wealthy people smelled this good.

Perhaps that’s how he made enemies. A bitter rival who got crushed on his way to the top, or decided to yank him down before he got there.

“Doesn’t explain why you don’t like the police.”

“You talk to bats and unconscious men now?” Sienna teased.

“Only the ones with a mystery.” Gathering up my hair, I secured my wild mane in a bun with his tie. A hat or hair dye would be better to truly disguise myself. If I was willing to steal like half the pickpockets in River’s crew, I’d have it. But the cost of getting handed over to the cops by an angry store owner was too great.

“I’ll be back with help as soon as I can. Cover the door after I leave.”

“Try the Northfleet tunnel,” Sienna said. “River’s on the move during the day. Recruiting. The tunnel is a good place for it.”

I nodded. “I’ll hang out there for as long as I can. If he doesn’t show, I’ll grab one of his people and make them take me to the doc—settle up with River after.”

I slipped out of the factory, those probing gray eyes on my mind. The guy was young. Older than me but it couldn’t be by more than a few years. I’d place him at twenty-five to my twenty-three.

Who’d want to kill a handsome, young, tatted-up model with money? Who did he piss off so badly this was the death they tried to grant him?

All questions to be answered when he wakes up. He will not die on me. I won’t let it happen.

Coming out onto Decker Drive, I headed south to the Northfleet tunnel. North Quay was a charming borough for those who could afford to delight in its offerings. This was the home of cat cafés, themed coffee shops, escape rooms, and old-timey bars.

Fairy lights wrapped around the lampposts. Off during the day, they flicked on at night to shimmer their soft glow on the Cinconites deprived of the real thing—stars.

Couples passed me on the cobblestones, gazing at each other to laugh at a joke or catch a smile, instead of avoiding the sight of me. A lanky, red-haired man grinned at me as he passed. A woman loaded down with shopping bags tossed a careless hello.

You could—and many people have—argue that a degree in fashion was a waste of my time that left me with an unimpressive résumé and no employable skills. Even so, on the list of things I’d do differently, changing my major to engineering or accounting wasn’t one of them. Clothes were as vital to living as food, health, and chocolate.

You know what doesn’t get you a job? Showing up to an interview in your underwear. Want that hot guy in apartment 3B to lose interest? Parade around in a Cheeto-dusted muumuu and ratty hair curlers. The difference between a suit and a sundress was the difference between jobless and alone to paid and in love.

With one change of clothes, albeit loose and baggy, I went from the woman no one wanted to see, to a human being again.

No, it wasn’t fashion that led to my downfall. It was refusing to see the monster behind the Armani. Clothes give as much as they hide.

I shook the memories away as the tunnel entrance appeared ahead. Counting all the hits I took on the way down wouldn’t get me back up. Although, imagining the many revenge scenarios I’d unleash on him always worked to turn a bad mood around.

The cute couples, shoppers, and nannies leading their charges on leashes thinned out, then disappeared. No one was hanging around when I strode through the crosswalk to the entrance of the tunnel. Half a dozen pairs of eyes clapped on me through the gloom.

Wadded-up newspapers, blowing plastic bags, and fast-food wrappers littered the tunnel, serving as the only decor accompanying the brick and grime. Claiming their spots on the footpaths, they stared at me from their huddle of sleeping bags and tatty blankets.



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