Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Her heart, like she said, belongs to someone else.
Her body, which should be rightfully mine to fuck as I please, doesn’t belong to me… yet. She’s holding back, and I’m playing a waiting game. I will not touch her until she comes to me, but until then, my body wants no one else’s. How long can I stay this way?
The phone rings, and Vance glances at it before looking back at me. “It’s Marlboro.”
Marlboro is the nickname of the man in charge of my Paris operations. “Ask him what he wants.”
Vance takes the call. “What’s the problem?”
I don’t hear what is said on the other end of the line, but shortly after Vance covers the mouthpiece and addresses me.
“One of Boga’s men got caught in Marlboro’s territory. They’ve taken him in. Since you’re here he is wondering if you want to be around for the interrogation.”
“Tell that pussy I’m on my honeymoon,” I answer with irritation.
To start with, Burim Boga is not a worthy contender for my attention. He is an upstart, a criminal of Turkish-Albanian ancestry who runs a band of low-life thugs. They call themselves The Morettis as if they are Italian, but everyone knows there isn’t a drop of Italian blood in any of them. Boga has no honor amongst the real Italian Mafia families, and the man in Marlboro’s custody is unlikely to be of high rank in the hierarchy of the gang. Men like him will fold like a cheap deckchair after two minutes, and the information he will cough out will be of little use. An interaction like that would leave me disgusted and depressed.
Second, I have no thirst to see men bleed. I never did. But in this business, unmatched violence is the only route to power. There is no other way. It is the only currency understood by all. Only the most violent will snatch the throne. I just did what I had to do to get where I wanted to be. At the very top.
As Vance hangs up, the door swings open, and my bride walks into the suite. My cock instantly swells to attention and I cuss under my breath. She’s wearing a demure high-collared dress that gently hugs her curves and stops at her ankles. Very decent outfit, but she looks like sin in it.
She eyes me haughtily for a fleeting moment before walking into the bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind her. The rejection is unmistakable.
“Redial Marlboro,” I tell Vance. “Tell him I’m on my way.”
Vance disappears from the room, leaving me alone. I stare at the door Francesca just disappeared into. I pride myself on my razor-sharp focus and control, but it seems as if everything goes to shit the moment Francesca walks into the room. I’m tempted to storm my way into the bedroom I paid for and have my way with her. But only for one second.
No.
She will come to me or I will not have her. I walk out the door and meet Vance and Dutch in the vehicle.
Chapter Six
VALENTINO
“Someone has been siphoning the olive oil off our trucks,” Marlboro explains as we walk to the basement where the captured man is kept.
“Diluted or undiluted?”
He grimaces. “Undiluted. They’ve been stealing in doses that are small enough to put down to wastage and careless spillage, but it is starting to add up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” My fury is with Francesca, but I’m getting ready to dump it all on everyone else since I can’t take it out on her.
“The situation is under control. It’s not enough to cause alarm ye—”
“When someone touches my shit, you tell me. You are not the Boss, I am. I make the decisions on what’s not enough to cause alarm. You hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Boss.”
“Continue…”
“I got a tip that it was the Moretti gang so when my men found Alban driving in our territory, we picked him up. He may have information on what Boga is doing with our stuff and which of our men are making it a possibility.”
“Take me to him.”
Marlboro rushes forward, pushing the basement door open to reveal a room with a meat hook hanging from the ceiling, a table with shiny instruments of torture laid out on it, and two chairs, one pushed against the wall and the other, badly stained and cemented to the floor. A man in his mid-twenties is tied to the stained chair. He has a busted lip, but that’s it. Since he’s been left fairly unharmed, he still looks cocky. He smirks when I walk in and I see immediately that he is high on something.
“Oh, look,” he taunts. “If it isn’t Silent Night himself, and here I am thinking I don’t matter.”
I snap my fingers, and someone appears with a chair. I straddle it, leaning my chin against the headrest as I look at Alban. He’s smiling, but it’s false bravado. That’s the problem with drugs. First, you think you’re invincible, then one taste of pain, and you become totally and absolutely paranoid with the conviction that someone is going to flay you alive.