Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
This time he doesn’t vanish into the crowd. Instead, he leads me out of the ballroom and through the corridor that leads to the first-floor suites. He turns to face me, that same smug grin still pasted on his face.
“Gallo,” he says, his voice smooth but laced with venom. “Or should I call you Little Cobra?”
Only Vega called me Little Cobra. So who the hell is this?
“Leave her alone,” I say.
“I have my orders,” he replies.
“I have new orders for you.” I pull a pistol out of my ankle strap and point it at his head. “Stay away from Raven.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he says.
“I don’t particularly give a rat’s ass. Anyone who threatens Raven—”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” he says. “That necklace wasn’t my idea. It was—”
I close the distance between us, pushing the nose of the gun to his temple. “What necklace?”
“The raven pendant.” He grins. “The one she’s holding now in her trembling fingers.”
“Tell me everything you know, or be prepared to meet your maker.”
He sniffs arrogantly. “You don’t have it in you to kill.”
I can’t help a chuckle at that one. “Clearly you don’t know anything about me. I don’t know who sent you, but whoever it was hasn’t done his homework.”
He scoffs. “Are you kidding me? Of course he’s done his homework. We know all about that Russian you killed in Eastern Europe. We know about Puzo. Self-defense and a peanut butter allergy? You’ve never killed a man in cold blood.”
I push the gun into his temple. “Like I said, you didn’t do your homework.”
I’m bluffing, of course. Those were my only two kills. But I’m about to have a third, and it’s going to be tonight.
I came here knowing I might have to kill a man to protect Raven. I came here prepared, and I came here knowing that I can do whatever I want. My grandfather will take care of everything.
Because I have what he wants.
I have his Achilles’ heel.
“Who are you?” I demand again. “And who sent you?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Vega? McAllister? Agudelo?”
“Could be.” He twists his lips. “But it seems to me, Little Cobra, you’re not looking close enough to home.”
Mario?
As evil as my biological father is, I don’t believe he would kill someone who means so much to me.
Who else is close to home?
There’s Austin Bellamy, of course. But no way would he allow his own daughter to be harmed.
What am I not seeing?
“Are you supposed to take her tonight?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply.
I cock the trigger. “You’d better start talking.”
He cocks his head in mock contemplation. “If I talk, you’ll kill me anyway. If I don’t talk, you’ll never get the information you need. So not talking is my better option.”
I move the nose of the gun away from his temple and pistol whip him across the head. He grunts and falls to the ground. I stand over him, kicking hard at his abdomen.
He curls into a fetal position, choking.
“Still don’t want to talk?” I say.
He groans, gulping in air. His grin is gone now, replaced with a grimace of pain. He spits out a mouthful of blood and glares up at me with dark, feral eyes.
“No,” he gasps.
I kneel beside him, pressing my knee into his chest. “Maybe this will change your mind.” I place the nose of my gun against his forehead.
But he just laughs—a hollow, bitter sound. “Go ahead and shoot. It won’t change anything. You can’t stop what’s coming.”
The threat hidden behind his words sends a snake-like shiver down my spine. I pull back the hammer of my gun, but it’s not fear that makes me pause—it’s the warning in his voice. It awakens something deep within my gut.
“Last chance,” I whisper into his ear. “Talk or die.”
He laughs once more, a rasping sound that echoes down the corridor. I wait for a moment, looking for any hint of surrender in his eyes. But there’s only defiance.
“Die then,” I say calmly.
He doesn’t flinch as I ready to squeeze the trigger, but the shot never comes. An iron grip wraps around my wrist, pulling the gun just as I fire. The silencer eases the noise, but the bullet ricochets off the marble floor, missing its mark by mere inches.
My heart hammers as I turn to face the new threat—a towering figure whose face is hidden by shadows. I strain to get a glimpse of him, but the dim corridor offers little light.
“Not yet,” the man says, his voice a low rumble that barely registers above the ringing in my ears. He sounds familiar, yet oddly foreign. There’s a casualness in his tone that contradicts his harsh action.
I try to break free from his grip, but it’s strong, like iron.
“What the fuck?” I turn to see the face of the man who stopped me from shooting the asshole.