Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I grab the doorknob and wrench it open. I want to tell him what I feel, what I think, in every demeaning and explicit way possible. I want him to feel small and broken, just like I do.
Instead, I run away to Grandpa’s office and try not to think about sitting down across the table from that monster and acting like I’m not tasting dirt.
Chapter 5
Carmine
She chooses the most predictably bland high-end restaurant imaginable.
It’s nice. Everything about it is nice from the smiling hostess to the generically handsome bartender to the candlelit tables. Even the patrons look like clone copies of each other.
The only good thing about this place is her.
Brice Rowe is fucking radiant.
I hate it so much, and it’s goddamn absurd, but she glows. I’ve heard that before, that some women have a glow about them, but with Brice, it’s actually real. She shines, she brightens, she draws every eye in the place, and all she’s wearing is some conservative dress that goes down to mid-thigh and doesn’t leave a hint of skin exposed on her chest, a pair of expensive heels, some tasteful earrings, and a simple little necklace. Her hair’s up and lovely, and her makeup is understated and barely there, and fucking hell, she looks gorgeous.
Clean and prim and proper.
And so fuckable it’s salacious.
She sits across from me in our corner table, somewhat secluded from the rest of the restaurant. It took a little bribery to get this spot, but it was worth the price. Brice sits with her back straight, her knees together, her chin raised, and looks at the menu as if she’s not going to order the same thing she always orders whenever she comes here. The duck or the fish or something.
I ask for a whiskey and she asks for wine.
“What do you think of this evening so far?” I ask her, swirling my drink with a smile and watching her carefully.
She sips the wine, watching me over her glass. “You haven’t said anything terrible yet.”
“I’d call that a win. I promised you my best behavior.”
“I’ll be honest. I didn’t think you had good behavior.”
I give her a tight smile and look away. “You don’t get to my position without some manners, believe it or not.”
“Manners? You? Honestly, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You’re the Don of a mafia family—”
His eyebrows raised. “Am I now?”
She waves that off. “And you’re talking about manners.”
“I’m a businessman. Business is at the heart of what I do, which means I can’t always walk around breaking things to get what I want. As much as I want to.”
She smiles at that. “Of course. If only smashing things were the answers to all life’s problems.”
“Instead, I have to play nice. Balance what I need with what others want. I have to sit in dark and smoky rooms and laugh at bad jokes and smoke shitty cigars and pretend like I’m having a good time, and hold back all the ugly truths and very nasty violence I’d much prefer to dole out. That’s what I call manners.”
She makes a face. “That’s a crass definition.”
“How would you define manners, then?”
“It’s the art of enjoying yourself without causing a fuss.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh at her, shaking my head. That pisses her off, but she’s much too well-mannered to say anything. Instead, her finger taps against her wine glass with a quick tinging staccato and her knees jostle.
“God, that’s depressing. Do you really go through life refusing to cause a fuss?”
“It’s how I was raised,” she says quietly.
“Really? By whom?”
“My father. My grandfather. And Grandmom, though she—” Her smile is brief, but it hides something. A little secret. Maybe the grandmother isn’t so proper then? “Anyway, I learned how to behave the way people expect my family to behave.”
“That must be hard. Living up to expectations. Believe it or not, I know something about that.”
“Hm, I bet you do.”
When the waitress comes back, she orders the salmon and I have the lamb.
“My turn to ask something,” she says when the waitress is gone. She avoids my gaze as she swirls her drink. Her lips press together, and I don’t know if she has any clue that she’s doing it, but that mouth is the most seductive thing I’ve seen in my life. She keeps licking her lips, ever so slightly, moistening them whenever she looks at me like she expects a kiss at any moment.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“The Atlas Organization. You helped found that, didn’t you?”
“One of the founders, yeah.”
“Are you still involved?”
I tilt my head from side to side. “Somewhat. Less and less as the years go by.”
“What about the others? Your lawyer, Gareth, was one of them, wasn’t he?”
“Gareth, Ford, Evander, Lanzo and I.” I smile distantly, thinking of my best friends, my brothers. “We built it together.”