Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Marina comes over and refills my wine glass. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, this is so good, thank you.”
She winks at me and shoots Erick a look like she wants him to behave.
He takes a long breath. The man’s gorgeous face remains impassive. “You want to discuss terms.”
“I figure I have something you want, so I might as well get something in return.” I stare at him.
Inwardly, I’m freaking out. This is stupid. I’m aware that it’s stupid. I’m basically dangling myself into the tiger’s den with a hotdog necklace around my throat trying to ask them questions about quantum physics or something. I’m begging him to cut my throat.
But something Ren said put the idea in me. Erick’s keeping me alive. The others, they want to make an example of me, but Erick doesn’t want that. Which means I’m valuable to him for some inexplicable reason.
Maybe he’s the only serious art-collecting mafia psychopath in the world and he really does think I’m talented.
Or maybe this job has some serious potential, and I can’t see it yet.
Either way, I’m in a negotiable position.
“What do you want in return? Aside from my promise not to kill you, which is itself already a lot.”
“Money.” I put my fork down and raise my wine glass. “Let’s say, ten percent of your cut of the profit.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Five percent then.”
“You are in debt to me, little devil. You’re not getting any money.”
“I won’t be in debt forever, right? Eventually, I’ll break even. But here’s the thing, I won’t know that until you tell me. I’m at your mercy.”
He leans forward, his eyes glinting. Handsome and dangerous.
“You’re right, you are at my mercy.”
A sharp clench stabs into my core.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Some part of me actually likes that idea.
“Fine, okay, forget the percentage. I want five million. I’ll do ten paintings for you in total, and when I’m done, you let me go with five million in my bank account.”
“Ten paintings might not cover your debt.”
“We both know they will, assuming you can sell them for what they’re worth.”
“And are you sure they’ll pass inspection? How positive are you that you’re good enough?”
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since I started work earlier today.
Can I really pull this off?
I keep coming back to the same answer, no matter how I look at it.
I have no other choice, so I will.
“I’m sure.”
“Then let’s say this. Ten paintings. If your debt is covered before all ten are sold, I’ll give you five million, regardless of what’s left.”
“Five million and you let me go.”
He nods once. “And I let you go.”
“And you guarantee the other guys won’t try to hurt me.”
“That’ll be harder, but I think once everyone’s got their money and then some, we’ll be in a good position to make that happen.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. Can I really trust this guy? Erick Costa, mafia boss, casino owner, fucking psycho monster? He’s handsome, and he likes my world, and he’s weirdly complimentary, but I still can’t get over the whole parking lot drugging thing.
Still, if what he’s saying is true, this is my only shot at staying alive.
I hate myself for this. I hate him for it too. All my life, I worked hard to never become my father, and now I’m diving in. I’m not just trying to save my life—I’m profiting too.
I guess being a shitty con-man asshole runs in my blood.
“You have a deal then.” I shove my hand out.
He takes it. His palm is huge, and he rubs my knuckles gently, sending my head spinning into space. My god, even the slightest touch from this beast sends my heart rate skyrocketing. He licks his lips, looking at me, and that stare is utterly erotic. He drips with masculine intensity, and I could scream with desire, if I also didn’t want to stab him with my fork.
I release him first, pulling away.
“Glad we could get to this point,” he says, pushing his chair back. “Although there’s a problem.”
I groan. “What now?”
“You need to produce something in the next three days.”
“The fuck?”
“I know, it isn’t much time.” He tucks his tablet under his arm. “But Frost and Gallo want proof that you can pull this off. Ren’s running interference, and I’m guessing that’s the best we can do before they get impatient. Three days.”
“I can’t do something like The Concert in three days. I need the right supplies, pigments, whatever!”
“Use what we have. Make it eighty-percent there. That’ll be enough for me to explain that it’s only a prototype.”
“Even eighty percent there is like—” I close my eyes, trying to imagine the amount of work. “I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Then you’d better get started, devil girl.” He walks over to Marina, kisses her cheek, thanks her for dinner, and leaves.