Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Cunt.” He draws his arm back and punches me so hard in my stomach that it knocks the wind from me and I double over, clutching my middle. He’s not done yet, though. He grips my hair, hauls me upright and punches me once more, his fist colliding with my temple and sending me to my knees.
“I’m going to enjoy what he’s got planned for you, you spoiled little cunt,” Rami hisses, spitting on me before walking out of that room and hauling the door closed behind him, locking it, switching off the light so it’s pitch black. I’m glad for it this time. I’m grateful as I huddle in the corner, hugging my stomach, my ears ringing, my entire body throbbing in pain. With a shaking hand, I find my ridiculous broken bottle weapon and try to stop the silent tears. Try to quell the terror that threatens to take me under.
6
CASSIAN
“This isn’t right,” Jet says as the call comes through for the guards to allow us entry. I drive through the gates toward the Moore estate. He’s looking up at the windows on the second floor of the massive mansion, all of which are dark. But the property is acres large. If the Moores have anything to do with Malek Lombardi, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep Amal, Daniel or Allegra here. Which is why it’s odd that the man Angelo has watching the house would have spotted them so easily. But it’s all I have right now.
“Leave your weapon here,” I tell Jet.
“You sure?”
I look over at him. “We’re driving up to the front entrance. The guards we saw are just a handful of the security he’ll have on site. Besides, it’s impolite.”
“Impolite? I didn’t realize we were worried about being polite.”
“I’m not here for a shootout, Jet. If I was, I wouldn’t ring the doorbell. I want to know what he knows. They have no reason to take Allegra. They’d be stupid to do it. They know she’s Trevino property. They’ve known it since the night I took her, and they know the consequence of stealing from me.”
“Thanks for the Ted Talk. What about Amal?”
“That I don’t know, but you do this my way, or you don’t do it at all.”
“Christ. Fine. I hope you’re right.” Jet sets his gun in the glove compartment.
I stop the car, put my Glock beside his and step out, instructing the soldiers in the second vehicle to stay put. The front doors open and two security personnel with military style weapons strapped across their bodies step out.
“You still sure we don’t want our guns?” Jet mutters.
“I’m sure.” I watch the man who follows the others. He’s dressed in a suit and if he’s carrying, it’s concealed.
“Mr. Trevino,” he says, glancing at Jet momentarily, but not paying him much mind. “Governor Moore wasn’t expecting a visit.”
Jet and I climb the stairs.
“No, it’s impromptu.” I say, unsmiling. “I’ve instructed my men to remain outside. We don’t come armed.”
He clears his throat. He may choose to search us. Fine if he does, but after a moment, he nods. “This way.”
We follow him into the house. The Moore’s have been governing here for generations. They’ve also had one foot in our world for as long as I can remember. They aren’t as inconsequential as Jet stated earlier, but they have never been of much consequence to me. To the Morettis, perhaps. If Alaric had lived, he’d likely have gone through with a contract between Allegra and Richard Moore for the political connection and the safety net that union would provide. For the Moores, it might have meant a cut in the business, because if there’s one thing rich people have in common it’s greed. There’s never a shortage of fucking greed.
The Moores are subtle in their work with the Moretti family. As far as I know, they’ve never openly been violent. But the soldiers carrying machine guns tells a different story and I wonder if I’ve underestimated them.
Jet looks around as we pass a living room where a middle-aged woman is sitting by the fire, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. She watches, her expression telling me exactly how unwelcome we are. I don’t give a fuck. We’re led down a corridor and toward a door that stands open at the far end. We enter that room.
The man who escorted us closes the door. He remains inside.
Bookshelves line the entirety of one wall, with two desks set facing one another at opposite ends. Richard Moore stands at the huge fireplace with a drink in his hand. He’s dressed in an expensive suit and casually watches us. He’s relaxed. Unafraid. And why should he be afraid? He’s got a fucking army out there.
“Cassian Trevino,” he says, his eyes giving nothing away. “What a surprise.”