Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
There’s nothing. I feel nothing. I’m only emptiness.
“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Look at you, filthy girl, wearing my ring.”
“Are we done here?” I push myself away from the bar and stand, clutching my purse under my arm. There’s a weight inside heavy enough to hurt him if I decide to swing it. I came here armed, I realize. Armed to meet with my fiancé.
How did my life end up here?
“We’re done for now. I’ll find us a place to live in the next week and I expect you to move in the moment it’s ready.”
“Before then, I hope I don’t hear from you.”
“Ah, but you will. We have a lot of publicity ahead of us, don’t we? Daughter of the famous Rowe family marries a gangster from Philadelphia. I can only imagine what the stories will say.”
I feel ill and have to look away. “You could at least be nice about it.”
“Why bother? You’re all mine now, filthy girl.” He leans forward and his breath is warm against my throat. “You’re all mine and I can’t wait to play with you.”
I brush past him there. I won’t let him see how shaken I am. I won’t give him the pleasure of knowing how deeply his words scar me, how bruised I feel, how sullied and low.
Yes, I’m his, I’m his fiancée, soon to be his wife. I’m doing this for my family, for my father, for all of his sins. I’m doing this because it’s the hard thing but it’s the right thing, and maybe, if I’m lucky, I can eke out some vaguely decent existence with Carmine.
But more likely, I just gave myself over to a monster and soon he’ll drag me into his lair to devour me whole.
Chapter 8
Carmine
“Welcome to Highland Park, gentlemen.” The beaming real estate agent sweeps back her long blonde hair and her heels clack on the driveway as she sashays toward the massive house. “I hope you find this property acceptable.”
“I sure as hell find her acceptable,” Ford says under his breath to me, grinning.
I give him a look. “She’s all yours. Not my type.”
“You know, I’ve been wondering. What is your type exactly? Rich, snooty girls that hate you?”
“Something like that, yes.”
The real estate agent—Cathy? Marsha? Christina? Kristy, definitely Kristy—looks back at us from the palatial front door and pretends like she can’t hear what we’re talking about. She’s flanked by big white columns, and if the house weren’t such an absurd monstrosity, it might look like an honest-to-god plantation structure.
Which is honestly a little distasteful, but it’s fucking Texas after all. And anyway, the place was built only ten years earlier, so thankfully, there aren’t any skeletons in the closet. Well, except for the ones Ford’s people put there.
He says, “I know this isn’t your kind of place, but Grandpop’s been looking for a quick buyer, and since you’re in the market—” Ford shrugs and starts after the leggy blonde, eyeing her ass like he wants to bend her over and lick it clean.
“It’s practically the suburbs.”
“The rich suburbs. Average home prices around here are over a million, and that’s the average.”
“You’re not winning me over.”
Ford laughs. He’s my height, dark hair, blue eyes, with a scar puckering the left side of his mouth. While I came into my money through darkness and crime, Ford is from the other side of the equation: old wealth, generational power, ancient lineages, all that bullshit. He dresses rugged, likes to keep a trimmed beard, and has the whole urban cowboy vibe going on. But the real difference between us is a thin sheen of respectability, one that’s hiding a whole lot of rot. “Come on, look inside, you’ll love it.”
The real estate agent starts trying to give us the tour, but Ford dismisses her with a wave. She’s a formality and knows it—she sits on a couch and tries not to pout, which I can tell Ford absolutely loves, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to fuck her in a closet the second my back’s turned.
Not that I care. This place has a million goddamn closets. Let him defile one—or two, or three, whatever. I follow him through room after room of opulence, from heated bathroom floors to real gold accents in the kitchen to a living room that’s the size of a normal house all on its own. There’s a library, a massive office, and a sprawling back yard with two pools and four Jacuzzis. “Seriously, why the hell does anyone need four hot tubs?” I ask and Ford only shrugs.
We end up at the bar on the ground floor. He pours some whiskey and we clink our glasses together. “What do you think?” he asks, finally taking a breath. He’s been selling the place since we walked in through the door and honestly, I’m exhausted. We both know how this is going to go already and I just want to get it over with.