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)
“I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Do not be late. One thing I do not tolerate is lateness.”
“Do not tolerate?” I ask. “What does that even mean?”
“The last man who was late to one of my meetings lost a finger,” Crue explains as he heads to the door. Then he pulls it open and walks out without a backward glance.
I’m left standing there, wondering what the hell is happening and how he managed to get inside my apartment.
Sometimes I wish time could be brought forward, and today is that day. I wish it was Monday because I spent all day wondering what I plan to do. I know this matter is above the police, and besides, I’ve dealt with my fair share of powerful men, especially the criminal type. And one thing I know is that they can be unrelenting. And in the way of a calling card, Crue put a bullet in my boss’s head. So begrudgingly, I must go because who knows how else he might lash out. Maybe a dinner setting will allow us to speak about it in a civilized manner. At least, that’s what I am trying to convince myself of. Crue emailed me the address and told me not to be late. Again.
I’m totally going to be late.
It’s already thirty minutes past the time he wanted to meet, and I’m still in the car he sent to fetch me. The driver has not commented about my tardiness, so either he doesn’t know or doesn’t care.
I intend to be late.
Crue can deal with it.
And what the hell do you wear to see a man who told you once a long time ago that he intends to marry you when he turns thirty-four? It’s such a weird number. And, to be honest, after a few years, I forgot all about it, thinking he didn’t really mean it.
That was until last night.
The car comes to a stop, and I look toward the double doors of the building. Maybe I should have the driver turn around and take me home.
Might be a smart idea.
But before I can even think of telling the driver to take off, my door is open, and I’m met with a smiling man.
“He’s going to be so pissed you’re late.” He says it with a smirk.
I’m confused at first. Who is this man? And then I see the similarities to Crue. They both have soft, dark hair, but where Crue has a slight wave to his, Dominic’s is stick straight. Where Dominic’s skin is ink-free, Crue has tattoos.
“It’s good to see you. Angel never shuts up about seeing you.”
Dominic offers me his hand, and I take it and pull myself out. When I’m standing in front of him, I notice his wedding ring. Last I heard they were still an item. But did something change in that time?
“You see Angel?” I ask, remembering she was supposed to be on her way to visit me.
“She’s my wife. Did she forget to tell you?”
What?
I offer a polite smile, the one I use when I’m in court. My silence, however, is enough of an answer. I knew her and Dominic Monti had been a thing since I left Italy. But over the years we didn’t talk about it much. And I never asked if she’d changed partners. We didn’t really go into depth about our lovers… or perhaps because I was the only who had multiple lovers. We mostly spoke about the stuff we binge-watch on television, what’s happening at work, and changes with the families back at home. Small things—unimportant things.
But how could she not tell me she was married? And to Dominic Monti?
Dominic looks over his shoulder and into the restaurant. “You better go before he kills both of us.”
I nod and clutch my bag to my stomach. My heels click on the sidewalk as I approach the double doors. I spot Crue at a table in the back as soon as they open. His eyes are already on me, and his hands are fisted together on the table. The hostess leads me to him as a waitress places food on his table.
“Is there anything else?” the waitress asks as the hostess pulls out my seat opposite him.
“No, that will be all.”
They give us polite smiles and then leave.
“You’re late,” he says, a tic running through his jaw.
I nonchalantly shrug. “Time moves differently in New York.”
His jaw tics again, and he picks up a knife and cuts into his steak. “Eat,” he orders.
I look at the food in front of me and grimace. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t like steak?” he asks as he takes a bite. I watch as he chews slowly, his lips moving with each bite.
He looks like he’s trying to contain his fury. I am not sure for how long and I take some pleasure in knowing that.