Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“That I have, mate.”
“Good. You’re also aware of X-Member’s mission—pleasing our benefactors is paramount.”
Rubbish. X-Member is all about securing the kill swiftly. Who is the bloody benefactor in Whitson’s case?
“Have you taken ill?”
“No.”
“What would cause you to sit on a mark for three weeks, sir?”
Bollocks, there’s an algorithm. A bloody computer equipped with checks and balances that calculates when a usual target is expired, I’m certain of it. I think back to my conversation with Fuyoung and also recall when I first started with X-Member. To secure the best, I attacked the best. Purloined Jackson’s kills right beneath his nose. But now that I’m peerless, I’ve never not expired a mark within two weeks. I spend a week, maybe, musing over how, but not much longer. And with no other assassins to settle the score, my bloody time’s up.
“I have reason to believe the requestor is operating under false pretenses.”
Soon as said, I drop my head back and silently curse myself for Luxury’s hold.
“Is that a concern?” replies the liaison from X-Member.
I rub the back of my neck. Yes, I’ve murdered innocent people to satiate the hunger Father created. My father’s words whisper in my ear even now as if my finger is on the trigger, all ready for the kill shot. However, for the sake of my reputation with X-Member, I add, “I don’t fucking appreciate being lied to. Profiles can be one sentence long, no explanation given, and I couldn’t give a shit. It’s all a form of art. This time, I was misled. That’s unacceptable.” Fuck, I’m spouting rubbish!
The bloke with a hard-on for Whitson practically wrote a dissertation on why he should die. Now, I’m as curious as the girl I can’t get out of my system.
“Ah, you’ve assumed the noble route, have you?”
Technically. “Yes.”
The man sighs. “You were previously wired five hundred—”
“This is about five hundred thousand pounds!” I shout.
Tosh! All right, an error on my part. It’s not my bloody problem that X-Member wires their crummy compensation once the mark’s chosen. It’s not a clever business strategy, relying on the honor code.
“Allow me to segue off your unexpected moral conduct. It’s the principle.”
“Come for me. And me alone.” It’s wishful thinking, but I say it anyways. Later, I’ll have Burt rewire their silly, little quids.
"You and everyone connected to you, sir," he replies.
“Then your entire system is fucked.” I end the call. Taking on a sharp gleam, I contemplate exterminating any assassin sent my way. They aren’t privy to my true identity. That’s how X-Member works. Their best angle is a Whitson.
Dr. Jonah Whitson or Luxury Whitson.
Fuck me! Just hours ago, I groveled and offered my Little One all I have. They’ll use her to target me. But selfishness won’t allow me to leave her alone.
Besides, she’s vowed to be mine.
What’s more? These customer-centric arseholes may send another assassin to finish off Dr. Whitson. I will not rest until I’ve uncovered the mystery surrounding Whitson, and I will not allow Luxury to suffer another tragedy.
25
LUXURY
Day Twenty-four
Money problems. That blows my mind. On Saturday morning, I awoke around three a.m. and overheard Victor’s argument. He owes five hundred thousand pounds, not dollars, which would still ring the alarm.
He barely allowed me to leave on Monday morning, and although days have passed, Victor’s poor choices plague my thoughts while I situate the potted plants around the Urban Gardens’ welcome mat. He’s apparently on an extended stay on the tip-top of the Hotel Delacroix yet won’t pay a debt. And Victor has a friggen assistant, too. Burt seems nice enough but not too comfortable in his own skin. When he opened the door to drive me home, Burt tugged anxiously at his jeans and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. Perhaps he’s worried about how long he’ll have a job. Or maybe Victor owes him back pay? Way to place your priorities, Vic.
“Looks like you need this.”
I straighten up as Deon gives me a once-over.
“You’re incredible,” I murmur, accepting the outstretched iced coffee.
“Need someone to talk to?”
About a narcissist’s money problems, no thanks. That’s none of my business. “Deon, I thought you had a new routine.” I gesture, lifting the caffeine booster.
“You’ve had company recently.” Deon hides a healthy dose of jealousy by sipping his drink. For a moment, I almost crave Victor’s icy gaze if he saw that I had other prospects.
“Yup, company.” And what I wouldn’t do to call Victor mine.
While running a hand over the back of his neck, a smile creeps onto Deon’s face. “I’ve ordered every kind of tea available, all to see if we could chat for a while, and it would lead to you going out with me.”
Brows lifted, I mumble, “You never said anything.”
“Ask out the inventor’s daughter? A man takes his time with someone like you.”
Astonished, I blush. “Well, thanks again for the drink.”