Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Put this on,” he says, shoving the outfit at me.
I blink at him. “You’re kidding?”
“You’re about to meet my father for the first time. I need you looking good.”
“I look fine.”
“You look beautiful, flower, but I need you looking like a fucking queen. Now get dressed.”
I hesitate, staring at him like he’s crazy. “You’re right there. You’re not going to turn your back or something?”
“I’ve already seen you naked.”
“And your point is? Turn around.”
He works his jaw but sighs and does it.
He chose a simple navy dress with heels, like something I’d wear to an office, except designer and worth ten times what I used to make in a week. I shimmy out of my jeans and my sweatshirt, and manage to pull the dress on before I catch him peeking at me.
“Stop it,” I say, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “Zip me.”
He reaches over and does it slowly, fingertips brushing against my back.
“Perfect,” he says, looking at me closely, like he’s studying me.
I glare back. “I’m not trying to be perfect for you. I’m just trying not to get us both killed.”
“I don’t care how you justify it, flower, so long as you do what I say.”
I work my jaw and put the heels on in silence. When I’m done, I look halfway respectable, although I wish I had time to fix my hair and makeup. I settle for smoothing out the dress and getting myself situated as the town car pulls up in front of a beautiful brownstone in the Upper West Side.
It’s like a dream of New York. He gets out and holds the door for me, and I step onto the sidewalk like I’m entering a movie. I’m used to beautiful people and expensive things out in LA even though that was never really my scene, and my father and brothers liked their comforts and their women and their yachts—but this feels like something different. This is old-school wealth, real generational money, and it’s power.
“My father owns these three,” he says, gesturing at three brownstones, each of them simple but immaculately kept.
“He owns… three?”
“Knocked the walls down to make one big structure. He’s got, like, six bedrooms and moves around, never sleeping in the same one twice, never following a pattern. He’s paranoid like that.”
“What about us?”
“I have my own place but we’ll stay here for now. It’s safer because my father doesn’t like getting blood on the carpets.” I can’t tell if he’s joking and he doesn’t elaborate. He walks up the stoop of the middle building and I stick next to him, my knees trembling. “Don’t talk unless someone asks you something directly. And even then, look at me first and make sure I nod. Understand?”
“Don’t speak unless spoken to. Got it, I’m back to being a child.”
“No, you’re back to keeping your fucking head on your shoulders. This is only temporary until we get past the worst. Am I going to have to fucking muzzle you?”
“No, asshole.”
“Good. Chin up, flower. You’re beautiful. Let the fuckers see you.”
I look at him, too surprised to reply, as he opens the door and steps inside. I’m beautiful? Let them see me? Sometimes I don’t understand him. I can’t tell if he likes me and genuinely thinks I’m attractive and worthy, or if this is all some crazy game.
I don’t have time to worry about it because we step into his world and the door shuts behind us.
Crystal chandelier, tile floor, a stairway that disappears to the second story. A man approaches in all black, shakes Luca’s hand, and gestures at me, speaking quietly.
“Edgar, this is Kacia Valverde, my new wife.” Luca pulls me to him, his arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders. “Kacia, Edgar, head of my father’s personal security.”
“Nice to meet you,” Edgar says with a nod. He’s in his mid-forties or fifties, graying hair, hard face, the sort of stare like he’s seen some terrible things. His suit looks expensive though, and there’s a bulge at his hip, probably a gun. “Your father’s in his office. He told me to send you right in.”
“Anyone else here?” Luca asks.
“Christoph, Massimo, and Vinny Dragonetti.”
“Where are they?”
“Playing cards out back.”
“Good. Keep them there for me, will you?”
Edgar nods once. “Will do.”
“I appreciate that.” Luca steers me into the house and says quietly, “Edgar’s decent. Doesn’t play sides, strictly security. I’ve known him a long time.”
“Do you trust him?”
He only stares straight ahead and doesn’t answer. He’s known the man his entire life—and can’t say if he trusts him or not.
The weight of our situation presses down on me like an ocean of bricks. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—he made that clear enough—but I didn’t think we’d be stepping into a den of hungry tigers with meat wrapped around our ankles.
Luca steers me down halls, past paintings, statues, furniture with photographs of young smiling kids and pretty women, mirrors framed in gold, glittering light fixtures, expensive and pristine molding. The heavy rug sucks in all sound and it’s like we’re moving through the back rooms of hell. Finally, he stops outside a pair of double doors, knocks once, and opens them.