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)
“As long as it takes me to come up with another plan.” I hold out my hand for her to take as a gesture that I won’t bite. “Trust me, you could be in a much worse situation. You’re safe here, and I have an entire staff at your disposal. You can think of yourself as a princess—a lucky one that is still alive after having witnessed a murder.”
Isla scrunches up her delicate face in disgust. “I’m not a princess here. I’m a prisoner.”
She walks toward the door, refusing my hand and waiting for me to step aside and let her pass through.
“Your perspective on the matter is up to you,” I say as I walk out into the hallway with her at my side. “The rules here are not. Follow them explicitly, or there will be hell to pay.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she teases as her eyes spark with that quiet, rebellious nature again. “I forgot that you’re the Devil.”
I paused the rest of my business this morning to show Isla the penthouse, and here she is pushing her boundaries, watching to see how far I will let her go, and I like her fire.
“So, you’re really rich,” she says after we finish touring all the luxury amenities. “You must be used to living in a place like this.”
“I don’t live here. I own this entire building, including the casino downstairs. It’s just one of my many investments in the city.”
It’s also my primary hub and a front for a lot of the family business that I head as a mafia kingpin, but I leave that part out. She doesn’t need to know any more about me than is required to keep her obedient and at arm’s length. She’s already seen too much as it is.
“Is that supposed to impress me?” she asks as we walk back to her room.
“Impressed, scared, delighted—it’s up to you how to feel,” I say with a smirk. “Just know that you are under my control while you are here.”
“You’re a real arrogant prick, aren’t you?” Isla hisses at me as she walks over to the table where her breakfast tray remains untouched.
I walk closer, but not too close. Being around this woman leaves me feeling strangely vulnerable and distracted. I much preferred watching her dance on a stage to having her captive in my penthouse.
“Brave words,” I say in a low voice. “Especially from a woman who has seen me kill a man with my bare hands.”
Isla visibly shudders. For a moment, her body language subtly shows her submissive nature when she’s not putting on a brave facade. But I’m quickly reminded not to mistake that submissiveness as weakness when she picks up the vase on the table beside her and hurls it at me. I’m sure she intended to hurt me with it, possibly even render me unconscious, and try to make a run for it. She wouldn’t have made it far, though, since I have men guarding every entrance and exit.
My reflexes are sharper than a cat’s, thanks to years of finely perfected brutal efficiency. No one, particularly not a pretty ballerina, can surprise me. I swat the vase away with one swift sweep of my hand, sending it crashing to the floor where it shatters into pieces.
For a moment, Isla stands in frozen horror, wondering what kind of angry wrath I might unleash in response to her outburst. But instead of getting angry with her, I simply smile and kick the broken pieces of glass away with my shoe.
“Are you going to adhere to my rules without any further incident, Isla?” I ask her.
“Probably not.”
Her chestnut curls tease a reddish-brown tint as the sunlight streaming through the window touches them.
“Good, I like fire,” I say as I turn to leave.
Behind the closed door, I can hear what sounds like her breakfast tray hitting the floor. I’ll allow one tantrum. Then I’ll send the maid in to clean it up. Indulging Isla by letting her test me is admittedly not a good idea, but I can’t help feeling that it excites me a bit—this defiance of hers. I’ve met men four times her size who cower before me as if I’m an untouchable God. But Isla Hart, this fragile figure with fire in her eyes, just pitched a vase at my head, and fuck if it didn’t send a bit of excitement pulsing through my veins.
CHAPTER 3
ISLA
Vincent’s devilish smirk haunts me after he leaves. I thought that at the very least, throwing the vase at him would put him off-balance. I took the risk of angering him, hoping that maybe it would distract him enough for me to gain the upper hand, if even just for a moment. But it didn’t even make him blink.
He found the idea of someone defying him intriguing, possibly exciting, rather than infuriating. I’m not even sure what to think about that. I’m also not sure what to do with the strange feeling that swells in my chest when I look at him.