Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
We’ve been out here for a good twenty minutes and have seen nothing but a cat jump across the busted crates lining the edges. I walk over to the large warehouse building, yanking on the locked chain, but there’s no light peeking through anywhere, and it’s not like anyone could be inside with the door bolted down.
The thought sends a shudder down my spine.
Oh my god, what if my dad does have him?
What if he’s locked in Dad’s soundproof “business,” a.k.a. torture room in our family home’s basement?
Panic flares and I whip around, eyes wide.
Damiano darts toward me, gaze flying from right to left in search of the threat, but then Bronx jumps off the crate she climbed up on in her four-inch platforms. “Found it!”
All heads snap to hers, but she says nothing as she moves toward Dom’s car, so we follow at a quickened pace, climbing in.
“What did you find exactly?” he asks as he puts the car in drive and looks to the navigation screen as she types in the location.
“His car. It’s been parked for about an hour at this address.” Her gaze locks with mine in warning. “It’s a house on the nicer side of town.”
My pulse leaps in my chest. A house.
Chloe’s house?
No. Stop.
I will literally burn it down.
Bronx smirks as if reading my thoughts and I check my bra for the Zippo I stuffed inside it, just in case, but as we pull onto the street, a second small stroke of … rightness, the mere possibility of going to him soothing part of me. I hold on to the feeling as we make the small trip to the house Bronx believes Bastian might be.
The street is semi-deserted as far as the homes go, most still under construction or with For Sale signs in the front yards, like the place he took us the night he met my friends.
Only this time, the court is filled with cars, most blocking each other in. The only vehicles with a clear path out are two identical black SUVs, the kind my father’s men barricade him between when he’s out on “business.”
“That’s … worrisome,” Delta notes what I just have.
“It’s probably just the Brayshaw heirs.”
“And all these other cars?” Alto edges, unloading, then reloading his Ruger.
Damiano pulls up behind the last black SUV right as a handful of people stumble out onto the lawn. A couple drunk frat-looking boys begin wrestling as the girls giggle and cheer. He turns to me. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Oh, please. They’re drunk trust-fund kids, not Mafia heirs.”
I climb over Ander and push out of the car without another word, the others moving to follow.
As we make our way up the path, a few people glance at us from the lawn, and I wonder for a moment if they’ll say something, but they do no more than size us up before turning back to their entertainment for the evening.
We don’t appear completely out of place, all young enough to blend in for the most part, but if you look close enough, there is a stark difference between us and them.
Their biggest problem is what to wear to prom, while ours is, well, unexpected death.
We reach the door and Dom pushes himself in front of me, Ander moving to the back of us while Alto stays firmly at Delta’s side. Bronx loops her arm through mine and as one, we move inside.
The music is heavy, the chatter loud, and the place is full of more people than I expected to see.
A hand slaps out in front of us, blocking our path, and a tall, attractive male meets each of our gazes.
“This is invite only.”
I scoff, and he raises a brow.
My head tugs back. Okay, so maybe they aren’t basic teenagers.
“Seriously?”
His eyes narrow and he settles his gaze on Damiano, deciding the biggest of us all is the boss. “I don’t recognize you, but that doesn’t mean you’re one of them.”
“One of who?” Dom asks, attempting to keep his tone nonchalant, but his hand has already disappeared into his pocket. No telling what kind of weapon he has hidden inside it.
“A Graven.”
Graven. Not Greyson.
Then I remember the tour we did last semester; there was one senior from a school called Graven Prep. It doesn’t click for the others though, and suddenly, Ander and Alto are in front of us, shuffling us back. Then I see her.
Brown hair and pretty pink smile.
Bitch.
“Chloe!” I shout.
She’s laughing, her eyes moving toward where she hears her name, and she freezes, a small frown taking over.
The guy at the door, his muscles lock as he snaps his head over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at her.
Chloe blushes but clears her throat, now walking this way … with a little too much sway in her hips, in my opinion.