Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
He holds up both hands. “Whoa. I should have given you more time to wake up. I didn’t think there would be lasting effects, but you’re confused. You’re awake. Very. Awake. This is real life. Yes, I kidnapped you, but I’m hoping that you’ll see the light and come around when I explain everything. Sorry I couldn’t just show up on your doorstep and have this conversation. It’s not something I could risk. Being exposed would do a lot of damage to our organization.”
“Yeah. To the mafia.”
“Not the mafia.”
“So the mafia.”
“Definitely not the mafia.”
“Yup, I’m sure that’s what they all say.”
His jaw ticks visibly, and his left eye twitches. It also shouldn’t be so adorable on a beast his size. “We are the anti-mafia. The not mafia. A group of people who tries to destabilize organized crime. We try to right the wrong by doing bad things to bad guys.”
“So, the not-mafia mafia.”
“Not. The. Mafia. We don’t use that word around here. That word is archaic and only goes so far to describe some organized crime. We target all of it.”
“Oh. I get it.” I pretend to breathe out a huge sigh of relief. “So, you’re not the mafia. You’re just a bunch of black-clad vigilantes who live underground and talk fairy tales about robbing the rich to give back to the rightful owners and those more deserving.”
“Boss, I think she’s got it. Can we please get out of here? I’m starving.” That comes from the corner. From Goon One. At the moment, my brain isn’t working fast enough to come up with better names. He has a scar on his eyebrow—just a slight nick. I could call him Scarbrow. Oooh, that’s a good one.
This is the weirdest dream ever. It’s so, so real. But also not real. Yet kind of real? God, my head hurts.
“Yeah, Boss, my feet hurt. These new shoes pinch like a mother.”
“Can we order pizza from that place you got it from last time? The place that didn’t have a problem putting anchovies, jalapenos, pineapple, and pickled beets on it?”
A snort came from the back of the room, somewhere behind me. “Your pizza is an abomination.”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately? It looks like someone tore your ass off and stitched it on your face. That’s an abomination. My pizza is delicious.”
“Boys, boys. Seriously now.” Mr. Midnight—ooooh, that’s also good—clicks his tongue at his bickering guards. Goons. Lackeys. Soldiers? Whatever they are. “We can get the pizza. Just relax. No one is an abomination. I’m hungry too, so I’ll get to the good parts.” His black eyes turn and land on me, so soft and deep they’re like falling into a ball pit, but those balls are his eyes. Creepy. “I’m about to tell Miss Azalea White—”
Yipes, he knows my name. My whole name. Is he trying to scare me? Lord it over me that he knows exactly who I am? That he’s been watching me? Why is that so hot? Right. Because this isn’t real.
“Why are you smiling?” Mr. Midnight croaks. “You’re ruining the atmosphere by looking at me that way. Good lord, woman, I just kidnapped you, had my men chloroform you because it was the only thing I could think of, cliché as it might be, and now you’re here in my basement in a room that looks like it’s used for torture and nefarious deeds. Which it isn’t. I just haven’t got around to developing the place yet, and it’s an old house, so it’s all dank and drab and musty and dark.” He shakes his head, appearing frustrated, before he rakes a hand through his delicious, thick, wavy hair. “The thing is, you’re in my domain. You’re in my world now. Not by choice. You see, it seems we were promised to each other when we were born.”
Oh, shit sticks. “P-promised?” What the hell does that mean?
“Yes, you see, it’s quite ironic. I’ve been initiated into a world, saved from a terrible life by a woman with a heart of vindictive gold.”
Well, that’s rather mysterious and cryptic. Who is this avenging savior? She? Really? That’s all I’m going to get?
“I turned twenty-eight last week, and it seems that with that milestone came a package. No, not seems. That’s wrong. It definitely came with a package, and that said package was left on my doorstep. Not that kind of package—a mail kind of package. A token from my old life. A life I thought I’d escaped. Well, as it turns out, not so much. You see, our fathers, men you never knew, and one who I, unfortunately, remember too well, lived hard and fast, and they died uh—well—gruesome deaths, as to be expected from crime lords.”
“C-crime lords?” I choke on a laugh. Apparently, I’m not the only one who has been reading too many trashy thrillers. The fact that we might have that in common tickles me in places it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t tickle me anywhere.