Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I shouldn’t have lied. Or, if I did, I should’ve lied better.
“I need to get back to work,” Tasha says. “Should I pick up a pizza on the way home?”
“Sure, that sounds nice. But make sure to add it to the bill.”
“Will you stop? When you’re uber rich from your jewelry, you can pay me back.”
“Thanks for believing in me.”
“Always.”
She ends the call. Meatball hops down from the windowsill and rubs against my leg. I pick him up, kissing his cute, grumpy face. “I shouldn’t have told him about The Vultures. But he was all up in my business, and I got flustered. That doesn’t mean I like him, though, right?”
Meatball whines. It almost sounds like he’s saying, You’re kidding yourself.
Maybe I am. The second I walked in there and felt those dark eyes on me, my body responded, a layer of sweat beading on my skin that made me wish I’d worn something more appropriate. But the call for the interview had come sooner than expected. I just threw something on and drove my jalopy car to Century City.
When the doorbell rings, I put Meatball down. It’s probably a package for Tasha. Her boyfriend is always sending her stuff. It’s sweet.
I don’t even bother to look through the peephole, which is a mistake. When I open the door, I immediately try to slam it shut.
Terror grips me as I process who I have just seen. A mess of fear and guilt and shame tightens in my chest.
Mason sticks his boot in the door’s way, grinning maniacally. I thought I’d escaped Mason, escaped the Vultures. I thought I’d escaped what I’d done: who I was when I was with them. The fear never quits, but lately, I’d let myself feel just a flicker of hope.
What an idiot.
Mason is tall, wide, with a thick brown beard and wild tangled hair. He wears his Vulture leather jacket, as usual. “There are two of my boys downstairs, hot stuff,” he says. “If you don’t let me in, I might have to ask them to join us. You know me, I’m an enlightened man, but they might take liberties which turn… interesting. Especially when they see what you’re wearing.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ll drag you there with me. I think you’ll find it less comfortable than I do.”
“Is that supposed to make you sound tough?” I hiss, but I can’t completely mask the shiver of dread in my voice.
He pushes the door open, leaving me no choice but to back up.
I need to grab Meatball and get out of here, then find somewhere to hide. Mason ducks under the doorframe and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. The hilt of a knife sticks up from his waistband, but I don’t see a gun. He’s an ex-con and only wears a pistol when he needs it. With me, he’s probably calculated that a knife is enough.
Meatball hisses at him, his hackles rising.
“Hey, little fella. I could make a nice hat out of you.”
“If you touch him, I’ll break your jaw.”
“So feisty, just like your mother. But I know you, Evie. That scared little squeak in your voice gives you away.”
“What do you want, Mason?”
“A coffee would be a start.”
“Please–I’ve got nothing to give you.”
“Begging, that’s more like it.”
“I just want to live my life. I just want to forget.”
He tsks. “You must not have heard the big news. I’m the new president of The Vultures now. Which means I’ve got the power to take back what rightfully belongs to me: you. Pack a bag. I’m taking you home. We’ve got work to do.”
“I’d rather die than work with you ever again.”
He snorts. “You say that like it’d be difficult to arrange.”
“Why can’t you just let me live my life?”
He unsheathes the knife with a tsk noise. Meatball whines. The blade is so thick, I can see my reflection in it, register the terror in my eyes.
“I’ll give you two minutes. Say goodbye to the kitty.”
There’s no way I’m leaving Meatball behind… and I can’t go with Mason. I can’t go back to that life. But am I willing to risk getting stabbed?
“You’re not going to hurt me,” I say.
“Things are different now. I can’t afford to be soft. I told my fellas I was bringing our master jeweler home.”
“Fine. But I’ll need more than two minutes.”
“Tick-tock.”
He follows me into the bedroom. I take my suitcase from under the bed, nerves causing my hands to shake.
“Drop that knife,” somebody growls from behind us, “or I’ll drop you.”
It takes a moment for me to register who it is. Am I dreaming? It sounds like Mr. Russo.
I turn. Dom Russo stands in the hallway, a gun aimed at Mason. Mason attempts to make his laugh sound convincing, but I know him. He’s crapping his pants.
Dom looks different than he did in the interview. A cold exterior concealing a layer of burning rage. He looks ready to kill. “Last chance.”