Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
He fights back, but I’ve done enough Krav Maga that it’s hardwired into my instincts.
When he goes down, his weapon spins across the floor, and I grab it before fleeing out a door and down a set of stairs.
I’m still inside the warehouse but I can hear traffic nearby.
At the bottom of the stairs I run into a bodyguard. But before he can reach for his gun, I have mine pressed into his forehead. He steps back, and I run… I run so fucking fast my lungs feel like they’re on fire.
I’m woozy and out of sorts, but there’s nothing like a threat to your life to get you moving.
I expect more resistance. More bodyguards. More something. But Luca Bamcorda has clearly underestimated me, bringing minimal manpower with him to the warehouse where he planned to rape and murder me.
I see a door and sprint toward it, knowing my path to freedom is on the other side of it.
Flinging it open, I run straight into a bulldozer of a man who raises his gun above his head and strikes me viciously on the side of the head. Pain shoots into my brain and engulfs me, sending me falling back into the blackness once again.
39
Nico
“Why did you apply for this position?” I ask the good-looking couple sitting across the desk from me.
“We like sex,” the man says.
“And we like people watching us have sex,” the woman adds.
Somewhere in their late twenties, they exude sex and confidence.
She pushes her long dark hair over her shoulder. “We figured why not get paid to do it.”
“And you’re aware some people will offer extra to participate?” I ask.
She grins. “We hope they do. Getting someone all worked up and wanting to join in is half the fun.”
“My wife and I enjoy group scenarios,” the man says.
“We’re more than happy to show you if you’d like,” she adds eagerly, undoing the top button of her see-through blouse.
My phone rings, but it’s a number I don’t recognize, so I ignore it.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, cursing Massimo for landing me with this interview. This is his area, not mine. But this morning, he called me to tell me he’s been held up with something that requires his immediate attention.
“The Irish and Russians are closing in, and you want me to drop everything to interview a couple about banging in front of people at the club?” I’d asked.
Massimo had sighed dramatically. “I know you’re a big don and everything, but this is our business, brother. I don’t trust anyone else to do this.”
I agreed only because my marriage is turning me into a more agreeable person, or so Massimo likes to tell me. Which I’m not sure he meant as a compliment or an insult.
Either way, he has a point. Being with Bella has put me in a permanent good mood, and I can’t say I hate it.
“All performers require the necessary health checks, as do the participants,” I say, declining another call on my phone.
“Of course, we are happy to comply with the conditions,” the woman says, her eyes drifting over my face with obvious interest. She bites her lip and looks up at me through long lashes. “And anything else you might want from us.”
Her invitation is clear. But like my ringing phone, I ignore it.
“When can you start?” I ask them.
“Right now, if you’d like,” the man says.
I smile because I admire his enthusiasm.
“We’re at full capacity tonight. But Massimo will work you into next week’s schedule. His assistant will call you with the details.”
After the couple leaves, I begin to work through a couple of emails that have been demanding my attention for some time.
When my phone lights up with a message, I decide to ignore it, but a quick glance tells me it is a photo.
A photo of…
I grab it.
What the fuck?
The picture is of an unconscious Bella, strung up by her wrists.
My vision becomes a hazy shade of red.
The screen lights up with a text message.
If you don’t answer my call the next time your phone fucking rings, I’ll fucking chop her goddamn hands off.
My phone rings.
“I will find you, and I will kill you the slowest way possible. Do you hear me?” I seethe into the phone the second I answer it.
My threat is met with laughter on the other end of the line.
“Your anger is admirable, Don De Kysa, but is poor use of your energy,” Luca Bamcorda says with his usual condescension.
A condescension I intend to burn off his face and rip out of his larynx the moment I get my hands on him.
“You should never have disrespected me,” he snarls. “But the ball is in my court now. This is my game.”
“No,” I grit out. “This isn’t your game, you old fuck. This is your mistake.”
With one hand, I hold the phone to my ear. The other is reaching for extra fire power, taking a second Ruger from the top drawer of my desk and shoving it into the back of my dress pants.