Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Not anymore.”
As she moves through my house, stopping to admire family photos and pick up a philosophy book, every aspect of her exudes grace, purpose, and beauty. “Surely, you’ve seen books and photos and music rooms before,” I remark, curious why she finds it so unbelievable that I would have such things in my home.
“Yes, of course I have. It just surprises me to see these signs of a life that you must have had before all the violence that now surrounds you.”
I’m unsure how to interpret that, so I shift topics to avoid discomfort. I have to stay on my toes, keep my senses sharp and aware, until I figure out who tried to break into my penthouse. I won’t rest until I do.
“Come, it’s late. You must be hungry.” I lead Isla into the kitchen and pour her a glass of wine.
She sits on a barstool at the kitchen island and watches me as I cook for her.
“Wait a second, you cook?” She’s completely taken aback by my simple plan to cook a meal. “So, you’re telling me that between bouts of killing people and taking their money, you engage in domestic pursuits? Are you a mafia kingpin or every woman’s dream?”
I almost let a smile escape onto my face. I have to catch myself before I do.
“Of course I cook,” I say, keeping my amused chuckle inside. “How else would I eat?”
“I don’t know. I figured that you’d be eating out at all the fanciest restaurants in Vegas, or having your staff cook your meals,” she says.
“I also enjoy solitude. I need time alone, away from others. Besides, cooking can be an artistic pursuit too, which I’m sure is something that you can appreciate.”
Isla watches as I finely chop vegetables and drizzle extra virgin olive oil imported from one of my favorite regions of Italy into a hot pan. She notices my pleasure in creating delicious food. “Ah, now I get it,” she smiles as she finishes the last sip of her wine.
I pause my cooking to top off her wine. “You get what?”
“I get why you enjoy cooking,” she says. “It’s another thing that you can control. Just look at how you measure and place everything so carefully. Is there anything that you allow just to happen without calculating it in your head first?”
“No.”
She sips her wine quietly for a few minutes, watching me cook and glancing around the house with her eyes. It’s a rare simple pleasure to have a quiet night like this, and an even rarer thing to have a woman like Isla here with me. I’m realizing that there are no other women like Isla Hart, at least not for me. Despite facing considerable danger, I’ve never felt more alive than I do with her. “Who were you before all of this?” she asks in a whisper as she leans over the counter toward me. “What did you used to be, Vincent?”
I take a long, slow sip from my glass and lean back over the counter toward her as I answer.
“Dead.”
CHAPTER 12
VINCENT
I’ve never felt so comfortable. I risk becoming accustomed to this feeling and Isla’s company. But that would be a distraction, a weakness—one that I can’t afford. I’ve already relented to my desire to keep her here with me. Now I need to be careful that I don’t need to have her by my side. I refuse to let myself care about anyone that much again. I won’t let anyone close enough to my heart to allow it to bleed. My actions stem from control and self-reproach. There is no room inside of me for anything else.
My assumption proved incorrect. But Isla is quickly threatening to change that. She weakens me in a way that I didn’t think possible, bringing me to my knees on new levels. She has power over me, regardless of whether she realizes it.
Other people can see it too, and that’s not good. It’s caused my relationship with Alonzo to grow increasingly unstable. He sees me growing attached to Isla, and the tension that he puts off in response to that is palpable. It’s a dangerous thing to have men like my underboss questioning my power. I must maintain complete loyalty, even fear, among my men. This prevents enemies, such as Angelo Barone, from exploiting their thirst for revenge. Hell, I have enemies on all sides, like that crooked cop Marco told me was snooping around the penthouse right before the attack. I need to determine which enemy was responsible and whose forces I eliminated. And when I do, I’ll make them pay.
Lying in my bed, Isla asleep in the guestroom, I contemplate how to find out who started the penthouse strike. I could press a few of the more innocent levers, the ones most likely to bend—people like Angelo’s wife, Natalia. I’ve heard she’s growing increasingly displeased with her husband. Or even someone like my underboss’s daughter, Serena. That girl practically throws herself at my feet every time she gets the chance to be around me. I can manipulate such lustful ambition to make her my unnoticed covert spy. Granted, Alonzo would recoil at the idea of me using his daughter like that, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Even Madame Durant might be worth paying a visit to. She has arms in various dealings around Vegas like an elegant octopus dipping into other people’s business.