Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Quickly typing and sending a message, I wait for my mailbox to tell me if it’s true. I don’t know whether he’ll reply immediately or even at all.
Or if it’s him to begin with.
Is this really you?
I don’t know what else to say, but when my phone dings and his name pops up in my emails, I know it’s him.
Dear Miss Ricci
Should I come over now?
Reply.
Crue.
Reply. Why does he sign off with that?
It’s demanding.
And rude.
And Crue being here might be problematic.
So I ignore it, slide my phone back into my purse, and look at Monica. She doesn’t know much about where I came from, and I don’t intend to share it with her. She’s met my mother a few times and knows my father lives in Italy. That’s it. How do you tell someone that your father is a killer?
You don’t.
“I’m going to go home. I’m not exactly in the mood to party anymore,” I tell her.
She nods and walks with me. My apartment isn’t too far, and thankfully, it has security, so I shouldn’t have to worry about that psycho. My job pays well, and it’s the first thing I invested in.
Well, I guess it did pay well until my boss died. Hopefully, that won’t affect my work. I’ve been with this firm since straight out of college and worked my way up. I’m a good lawyer, and defending criminals came naturally to me. But I know despite our outstanding reputation, even this will make headlines. Sure, we’ve made a few enemies in the past, but I can’t understand why Crue, of all people, would target my boss. But that feels like a Monday problem because I’m dead tired.
“I may catch a cab, but I’ll walk you back first,” Monica says.
“I can handle myself, and it’s close. Go home, cuddle your cat.” I step out to the road and wave down a cab. She seems torn about leaving me, so I open the door and nod for her to get in.
“How are you so relaxed?” she whispers. “I mean, he did it right next to you.”
“I’m fine. I deal with criminals, remember. Go to bed.” I reluctantly give her a one-armed hug before she climbs into the cab, and then I watch as she drives off. I take the short walk home to decompress.
When I arrive at my apartment, the doorman opens the door as I approach. He gives me a once-over, most likely because of the state of my dress, but says nothing. As I step into the elevator and press the button for my floor, my mind drifts with so many variables.
Crue. Why is he here, and why now?
My boss. What was Crue’s objective?
But I try to push those thoughts away, knowing I’ll become obsessed with it like my cases. And tonight, I want to sleep. I exit the elevator and unlock my door before I step in and shut it behind me.
“Your dress is dirty.”
I don’t think, I act.
Spinning, I shoot my hand out straight for the throat of whoever is behind me. He catches it though, and drops his head to the side. But that doesn’t stop me. My knee comes up and meets with his junk. Crue bends over, his hand letting go of mine as I fist his hair and pull him all the way down. I sidestep him, intent on getting to the kitchen, but he reaches for me, grips the side of my dress while he’s still bent over, and I kick again, only this time my heel meets his ribs. “Fucking hell,” he shouts. And just as I start to move again, both of his arms circle my waist and pin my hands to my sides.
I’m breathing heavily, and so is he. I try to wiggle away, but he grunts and tightens his hold, keeping me in place.
“Could you not make my cock hard after you just fucking kneed it,” he grumbles. I pause at his words, my body straightening and locking tight. “Who taught you to fight?” Crue asks.
“Let me go.”
“Who taught you to fight?” he demands, and I have the distinct impression he isn’t a man who often asks questions twice.
“My father put me in jujitsu when I was eight. When I moved here, his requirement was for me to continue any form of fighting. I chose kickboxing,” I tell him, trying to get my hands free. “Now… Let. Me. Go.”
“Lethal,” he whispers near my ear before dropping his arms around my waist and stepping back.
I turn around to face him. “Why are you here?”
“Are you married?” Crue asks, looking down at my hand.
“No.” My brows scrunch together in confusion.
“I’m thirty-three,” he tells me.
“Oookay.”
And it hits me.
All at once.
How could I forget?
Probably because I just watched him kill someone. Was this really what this was all about? The arranged marriage between our families?