Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Ravencroft – the woman with one name like Beyonce or Cher – controls one of the four branches of The Empedocles Syndicate, an elusive criminal organization created and operated by four ruthless, female assassins.
That’s right.
Fucking.
Four.
Like the elements.
Earth, fire, wind, and water.
I’ve – thankfully – only had to do business with Ravencroft or “water”.
Usually indirectly.
Typically for one of her lion like pride members.
She has her own in-house digital forensics specialist – just better branding than hacker – for most of her shit.
Me and that dude have crossed paths.
Three times.
Once at a party.
Once at an auction.
And once when I got lost in this place trying to find the bathroom.
He was walking around the hallways, barefoot, shirtless, and gobbling down Goldfish.
I asked where I could piss.
I let him lead the way.
Enjoyed a handful of his b class crackers – Cheeze-Its are infinitely better.
Found out he’s not allowed to eat them in his room, which is evidently across from hers in the main part of this crime lord castle.
Ravencroft isn’t the type of woman you question.
Definitely never challenge.
You know.
If you liked to live longer than that particular conversation.
Our presence in one of her outdoor dining spaces is announced by the very man who brought us here the instant we’ve crossed the threshold, “Mr. Fiorenzo and Guest, Madam.”
“I have a name,” Garcia grumbles out of turn prompting me to cringe.
Shake my head.
Insist he not overstep.
Because this is not the type of person you cross and live to fucking tell about it!
“I have a reputation that precedes me in many of the most prestigious circles.”
“Not now, my guy,” escapes me in a muted volume.
“I have defended wrongful arrest cases for the infamous DeLucas, white collar accusations for wealth management firms such as Rice & Mulligan, and represented Oscar winning starlets like Celestial Lioncourt – who I helped become emancipated from her money hungry parents at fifteen – win civil suits against her PR agents, production companies, and an airline for taking photos they had no business taking.”
Ravencroft’s golden, chai brown skinned face, slowly curls over her black, lace dress covered shoulder to find his gaze.
“My name is worth knowing.” He strikes a cocky smirk prior to standing a bit taller. “And it’s-”
“Victor Ferdinand Garcia,” she finishes, tone completely void of emotion.
Care.
Interest.
Surprise has him tilting his head in question alongside a casual hand gesture. “Ah, so you do know-”
“Who you are. Yes. I know everyone and everything that comes onto my property, Mr. Garcia. For instance…your middle name – which you have a strong distaste for – was meant to pay homage to your great grandfather who claimed that your family had roots that could be traced directly back to Ferdinand Magellan – the Portuguese explorer who at one point became commander of a Spanish fleet – however in actuality your family has no relation to him but a mutinous deckhand who was tired of constantly being on his knees for more than scrubbing.”
The audible croak out of my best friend successfully causes me to cringe.
I tried to convince him not to come.
I tried to reassure him that I could handle this on my own.
That I’m capable of handling some shit on my own.
That I’m fucking man enough to, but he refused.
Insisted he wanted to protect me.
Which was sexy.
Then he turned around and basically lectured me about him not wanting to have to get me out of more trouble than I’m already in.
Which wasn’t sexy.
Just condescending.
He’s def mastered the art of both.
Typical big cat behavior.
“Sit,” she commands at the same time she rotates her frame forward. “And do not speak again unless instructed to, Mr. Garcia.”
There’s no objection.
No second attempt to prove he’s the smartest or most powerful person in the room.
Garcia simply clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and crosses over to the chairs Gyles has pulled out for us.
Holy shit.
That’s a first.
Don’t think he’s ever backed down without a fight outside of a courtroom.
Once we’re settled in our respective seats, Ravencroft casually reaches for her champagne flute, stare drinking in my specially chosen button up shirt. “You remembered to wear leopard print.” The pleased hum that escapes is attached to her leaning back in her seat. “Undo another button.”
Meeting the order is instant.
And despite his best efforts to keep his eyes elsewhere, captures Garcia’s hungry gaze.
He likes me in this print too.
At least she’ll admit it out loud.
Doesn’t make me guess based on a subtle dick adjustment in tailor-made suit pants or find the nearest ginger to play Call of Coochie with to distract from the simple vibe that’s in the air.
“So obedient,” Ravencroft contently coos, glass lingering near her lips. “Speak.”
“I’m here to request a favor,” I swiftly announce, knowing better than to waste a second of her time.
“You mean another.” One sip is taken. “Presence unsummoned was its own, Fiorenzo.”
Yeah.
Should’ve seen that coming.
Like getting kicked in the chest after surprising a wildebeest.