Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
I wait as he grabs a paper and a pen from my desk and starts scrawling.
Jackal rises and stretches, making a deep rumbling yawn noise. He pads over to me and sits down, looking up at me. I reach out my hand and he grins and offers his head for a stroke.
I wish everything was as simple as Jackal.
When Elmo’s finished the list, I snap, “I don’t need to tell you what happens if this isn’t complete, do I?
He turns to me, shaking his head, looking like someones burst his bubble and sucked all the air out of him.
“Boss, what’re you going to do with the girl?”
I sigh darkly.
The last thing I need is the daughter of my onetime friend and now rival to deal with. Problems invariably spawn more problems, and this is exactly the kind of conundrum I don’t need.
But I don’t have a choice now.
“Where is she?”
“Underground,” Elmo tells me.
“Have you hurt her?” I snap.
“No,” Elmo says. “She’s tired and scared, but physically she’s alright.”
“Good, that’s good,” I say.
If he’d hurt her, this would become even more complicated.
“I might be able to broker a deal with Franco,” I murmur. “Maybe I can explain the misunderstanding. But fucking hell, Elmo, this puts us in a hell of a bind. How can I give her back without making the Family look weak?”
He opens his mouth again.
“You don’t need to answer,” I sigh. “I’m just thinking out loud. Wait here for the men to take you to your detox cell. Don’t run, Elmo. Please don’t do that. I don’t want to have to but a bullet in your head.”
Jackal trails after me as I walk down the stairs to the wine cellar, the automatic lights switching on with each step, revealing a large, long room lined on all sides with vintages wine bottles.
I’m not much of a drinker, but all these bottles make for useful hiding places.
Guns, weapons, cash, all conveniently located if I ever need to act fast.
I spot two of my men standing guard in one corner of the room.
Their bodies are obscuring the woman, but I can tell that she’s sitting down, her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. She’s rocking back and forth slightly, but not in a manic, unhinged way. It’s more like she’s trying to keep herself warm.
“Leave us,” I tell my men.
They must be able to sense my mood because they immediately desert the prisoner and walk toward the stairs, their heads bowed as though they’re doing their best not to incite any of my anger.
I turn my gaze onto the woman sitting on the floor.
I stare.
I stare so hard I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my head.
My world shatters and rebuilds itself and then shatters again, a thousand times in a few breaths, my eyes roaming over my onetime best friend’s daughter, my enemy’s daughter.
My manhood throbs in a way it hasn’t in …
Well, ever.
It throbs as my gaze flits down from her feet to her head and back again.
Even sitting with her knees to her chest and wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, she can’t hide the shapeliness of her body. She’s curvaceous in the extreme, every inch of her full and juicy, the sort of body made to be explored at her lover’s, at my, leisure. Her breasts are large, perfect for palming and teasing and for giving life to my children, children I didn’t even know I wanted until my eyes consume her. Her hair is shoulder length, wavy, and dark, lying casually upon her shoulders.
When she looks up at me, I see that she’s not wearing any makeup, but that just makes her even more beautiful. A crimson blush infuses her cheeks and her eyes are sharp and blue, the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen, the sort of eyes that’d widen beautifully as I fucked her pretty little mouth … and that could console our children when school and life didn’t go their way.
“Do you know who I am?” I growl, masking the sudden lightning smashing into me over and over with gruffness.
“Should I?” she says, a note of sass in her voice.
Her gaze flits to Jackal.
Instead of sitting by my side like the dog normally does – he’s a loyal companion, my best friend – he stands up and trots over to the woman. He leans down, stretching, offering his chin up to be scratched in a way I’ve never seen him do before, with anybody.
I stare, amazed, as the woman lovingly brings her hand to Jackal’s chin and scratches softly.
She’s downright maternal, the way she does it.
It’s easy to imagine her tending to our children with the same love and affection.
“Jackal,” I mutter after a moment. “Heel, boy.”
Jackal turns and walks over to me with a huff as if he resents me for interrupting his moment.