Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
“What?” I follow his line of sight until I have the source of his disturbed expression in view. “Oh fuck,” I mimic, seeing all the men in my peripheral vision move back. Behind me. Out of the line of fire.
Busted.
Shit, I thought she had a dress fitting today. “Hey, baby.” I slap on a cheesy smile and step in front of the dead body like I might be able to hide it from her. Not because she’ll be pissed, but because, frankly, it’ll give her nightmares. My wife has seen me kill many men. She’s watched me decapitate the Romanian cunt who bought and handled her for years. She’s watched me cut out my dad’s cousin’s tongue and force-feed him it when I found out he was the man who took her baby and sold him. She’s seen some disturbing things. But that was years ago. And I don’t want her used to that shit.
“Hey,” she says slowly, her scrutinizing eyes circling the men and where we are.
I’m bracing myself for the explosions. I don’t know how she got here, how she knew I was here, but I’ll find out once I’ve dealt with this unexpected situation. And if I come out alive. I point at the dismembered body. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that.”
Her head tilts, eyebrows high, lips pursed. “It looks like a standard Angel-faced Assassin kill to me.”
“It was James.” I throw an arm out toward him, unhesitant and unashamedly chucking him under the bus.
“Where’s Beau?” he asks, stepping forward, tense.
“In the car.” Rose keeps me in place with her burning blues as James tosses the ax aside and marches off. “Who is it?” she asks, raising a limp hand and indicating to what’s left of James’s latest catch.
“The Dodo.” I say it without thinking, and laughter erupts behind me.
No. Fuck, no, do not laugh.
My cheeks blow out, and I try so fucking hard to shut off any orifice that could let me down. The knobheads behind me aren’t helping my cause, snorting and tittering in the background. Death wishes, the lot of ’em. It’s no good. I lose my fight and bend at the waist, having to brace my hands on my knees to hold myself up. I haven’t laughed like this since leaving St. Lucia, our life taking a swift turn from carefree and easy to serious and, frankly, fucking taxing. I need this release. Rose, however, looks like she needs to punch me in the face.
“You finished?” she asks, her posture threatening.
I focus on composing myself like my life depends on it, because it probably does. “Finished.” Back to serious business. I raise a hand in indication for everyone to fuck off and leave me to handle this alone. “What are you doing here, Rose?”
“Me?” She looks at me like I’ve sprouted horns. “What are you doing here?” She motions around the site, to the diggers and cranes and piles of materials. She knows what’s happening.
“No,” I say firmly, and she recoils, indignant. “You will explain. How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“You gave Goldie the slip?”
“No one gives Goldie the slip.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “You held her at gunpoint, didn’t you?” My lips straighten, annoyed. “I gave you that gun so you can protect yourself, not so you can brandish it at my men/woman when you feel like it.” This isn’t the first time this has happened. But it’ll be the last. I stalk forward and grab her bag from her shoulder, rootling through. “Where is it?” I ask, looking up for an answer. I don’t need one. It’s on the tip of my nose. Literally. My eyes travel up the barrel to her hand, up her arm, across her shoulder, her face, to her eyes. The wicked glint is satisfaction personified.
“What are you doing here?” she asks calmly, pushing the tip of the gun into my flesh.
I move fast, dropping her bag and grabbing the gun, twisting so she spins into my chest. I lock down her arms, squeezing her hand until she drops her grip. I could have asked her for the gun; she would have given it to me. But where’s the fun in that? My mouth at her ear, I growl, “How did you know where I am?” The woman infuriates me.
“I tracked you.”
“What?” I don’t like how smug she sounds. Not at all. She tracked me?
“When you were asleep last night, I shared your phone’s location with mine.”
“You did what?”
“You heard. I knew you were up to something, Black.”
I release her and turn her to face me, my patience fraying. “You promised me you’d be wise.” Leaving the mansion without protection isn’t wise. “I’m fucking livid, Rose.”
“And you promised me you’d wear a bulletproof vest.” She reaches for my shirt and rips it open, revealing . . .
A bulletproof vest.