Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
The open window leading to the fire escape may as well have her outline drawn all over it.
Shit!
If I hadn’t wasted so much time being nice to little old ladies, I could’ve stopped this.
But why would she run in the first place?
And straight into the arms of who?
Racing to the open window, I know from the sound of squealing tires that I’m too late.
I’ve been in this game long enough to know what it takes to snatch someone. Even if they put up a fight, it’s only moments.
Fuck!
My hand crashes down on the window sill, and the glass cracks before a thick shard drops, narrowly missing me.
But I’m not worried about myself or my hands.
I’m thinking about her.
Jasmine.
Thinking about what I’ll do to whoever took her like this.
Feeling sick to my stomach, knowing just what people like that are capable of.
People like that? You mean people like you, Rocco.
People like me.
Suddenly weak, I take a seat on the edge of her sofa bed. And hearing it groan and creak under my weight, I feel even worse as I glance around.
Knowing that this is where she’s lived for so long.
It makes me feel rotten for not finding her sooner. Lifting her out of this place, and giving her the life she has waiting with me.
Looks like someone beat you to it, Rocky….
Don Portello’s voice rings in my ears, and I can just picture that smug fuck look on his haggard face.
Did he do this? Did he order Jasmine snatched?
How could he? She was just there like fifteen minutes ago.
None of this makes sense so far, and even less sense to me is how much I feel like going home right now.
As if the answer will be there somehow.
Everything in my brain tells me Portello is behind this somehow, but my whole body is screaming for Jasmine.
And I can only think of home when I picture her in my mind.
I could swing by Portello…I mean, our family’s restaurant on the way home, but I’d probably get myself shot.
Or worse, if I blow whatever I sense Papa has up his sleeve, he’ll kill me himself.
He wouldn’t have taken Jasmine.
Would he, though?
I shake my head. Not used to all these variables for something I wouldn’t normally think twice about.
Not that I do it every day, but hearing about people getting snatched and worse?
Well. It happens a lot in my world, so I don’t usually overthink it when it does.
But this is different.
This is her.
This is Jasmine.
My Jasmine.
The girl I haven’t even had a chance to meet properly yet.
I climb down the fire escape, silently hunting for clues I know aren’t there until I reach the alley.
The low wall is a step for me, but there’s nothing on the other side except tire marks and the hint of fear in the air.
I wander for what feels like minutes, but it turns out to be over an hour once I realize I’m halfway home, trying to think the best way forward until I find myself hailing a passing cab.
Sliding into the back, I growl our family’s home address which makes the driver do a double-take, sinking into his seat a little.
Nobody ever wants to get involved in our world.
Not even if it’s to just give us a ride. It might be the one thing that someone comes asking questions about later.
And it’s not usually the law asking where we were last seen and going where.
I have a small place downtown, but I’ve been home for some time after Papa asked me to stay when his health started to go downhill.
Pulling up to the gates, I can see Papa stepping into the house as I hand the driver some bills.
The gates swing silently open once I get closer, and I hustle up the lengthy tree-lined gravel drive, eager to find out exactly what’s happened.
The whole grounds seem electrified with activity, even though there’s not a soul in sight.
I could dismiss this feeling as my imagination, but once I get to the massive front doors, the security grate gets pulled back, and I have a couple of 50mm barrels pointed at me until it’s clear I’m just trying to get into my own damned house.
“Sorry, Mr. Martinelli,” the men murmur, opening up and ushering me in, glancing around the edges of the doorway as if I’ve been followed.
“What’s going on?” I bark. “What’s happened? Where’s…?”
I want to say it.
I need to know, but saying her name aloud right now isn’t a great idea.
But I feel some relief, at least.
Since pulling up, I know she’s here.
I can feel it.
“Rocky!” my Papa calls out from the landing at the top of the huge oak staircase. “Come up. We need to talk….”
One thing my father’s never done is mince his words, and before I even take a heavy leather seat in his office, he’s giving me my next assignment.