Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“I’ve been ready since they took you away in chains.” Garik pulls to a stop in front of the storage unit at the end. Rust scars the door in stripes reminiscent of a panther’s claws. Dents punctuate the bottom, and if a storage unit could look lonely, it does. “I hope you have piles of cash in there. Jewels too. Maybe some silver?”
I open the door and step out into the rain. “If I had cash in here, you’d have cash.”
A quick flash of emotion crosses his broad face before he masks it. “You need me to stay?”
“No. Thanks. See you tonight.” I shut the door and turn toward the unit.
He drives off, leaving me in the quiet area with the rain. I lift my face and allow the liquid to slide down the planes of my face with a sense of freedom very few can understand. The wind whistles between the units; a forlorn sound that still beats any cacophony found within prison walls.
Alone. It’s the first time since they shackled me that I really feel alone. There’s no alone time in prison. Not really. The sense of desperation within those locked places makes its own sound.
I allow the rain to land on my mouth and tongue, tasting freedom.
And the hint of vengeance.
I don’t know who ensured I languished behind bars, but I will find them. Then they’ll wish for me to send them to prison.
I won’t.
God, I won’t. I gave up on God a long time ago, but if there’s any such deity, even He will fail to protect those who betrayed me. Only someone close to me, a being with access to me, could’ve ensured I was found guilty. For them, I’ll be the judge, jury, and fucking executioner.
I make the vow as the rain pummels down, drenching me. My T-shirt molds to my chest and my jeans to my legs. The boots I wear are leather and new with a rough edge.
Finally, I lean down and flick open a carefully hidden keypad before punching in my code. A lock releases. Grunting, I grasp the handle and lift the door, allowing natural light to illuminate the narrow space.
She’s still here. My MV Agusta Brutale 1000 Serie Oro—black with a hint of red and so sleek she purrs like a genuine animal. Calling her a motorcycle is an insult I’ve never issued. She’s a goddess on two wheels.
Moving to the rear of the structure, I find my weathered backpack with the two loaded guns in it. Good. I shove them both at the back of my waist and pull my jacket down to cover them. They’ll need to be cleaned and oiled as soon as possible, but for now, having their weight against my skin grounds me. I left the older Beretta at Rosalie’s home under her frilly bed.
I can’t count the number of enemies coming for me right now, and that’s not even considering the kill list from my old prison pal. His gang will be dangerous to me if he gives the order, at least until I have my men back in place. But I’d rather prevent a full-out war on the streets of Palo Alto. Plus, a deal is a deal.
I need to receive that list now to handle those kills before the authorities put a tail on me, which should happen any moment. Not that I couldn’t ditch one, but even so, the clock is counting down quickly.
A crow cries in the distance, and I pause, waiting to make sure I’m alone. The surrounding area falls silent without a hint of tension.
I roll the bike out and throw a leg over her, flicking on the engine. She purrs to life like she’s been waiting for me, and the rumble between my thighs feels like an unstoppable energy.
I twist the throttle and drive through the silent structures, finally reaching the quiet main road. Then I take her wide open.
The wind and rain battle me, battle us, but we stay the course.
Freedom rushes through me. This feeling—I’ll never lose. Not again. Not a chance.
I’ll take them all out, reclaim my birthright, put Rosalie in place, and then live my life.
At any cost.
ELEVEN
Rosalie
Having finished my breakfast of one healthy apple, I precariously balance my latte in one hand and my briefcase in the other as I approach my office door, before Joseph Cage slides out of a conference room down the hallway.
He moves toward me, his gaze sweeping me head to toe. “Rosalie, good morning.”
“Good morning,” I say, the hot coffee beginning to burn my hand through the cardboard wrap.
He looks me over again. “You look fantastic today.”
I’d hurriedly tossed on taupe-colored slacks and a white blouse, hoping I remembered to leave a blazer in my office just in case I unexpectedly get called into court today. I’m wearing a simple angelite mirrored pendant and matching earrings because Alana had once told me that angelite is my stone. “Thanks.” I begin to move past him.