Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 54283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
Every head turns in my direction, conversation faltering all across the ballroom as the Who's Who of Los Angeles society catches sight of me. Fear ripples through the crowd in an audible hum.
I smirk, amused by their discomfort, as I stride deeper into the room. They part like the Red Sea, not even daring to make eye contact. The fucking cowards. Most of them didn't make their millions any more honestly than I did. They just prefer to hide their misdeeds beneath a layer of forced civility. They shake hands, smile, and play this game when they'd stab anyone in this room in the back just as easily as I would.
It's a fucking joke.
Why bother with it when you're untouchable? Every law enforcement agency from here to Colombia knows what waits if I fall. Felipe Rojas will sweep across this hemisphere like a plague. Once his people are in, there will be no getting him out again.
He'll pour his poison into every corner of the world, carving out a kingdom for himself. That's what he wants—not just my cocaine fields. Not just to be the only drug baron in Colombia. He wants to be the only one, period.
Sometimes, the devil you know is preferable to the devil who'd kill you all. And Felipe Rojas? He's a murderous prick with horns the size of Texas. There are no rules where he's concerned.
And I'm the only thing holding him at bay. The blood on my hands doesn't even compare to what he's capable of doing—to the things he's already done. The FBI knows it. So does every other three letter agency in existence.
But the motherfuckers in this ballroom? Men no better than me despite the lies they tell themselves when their heads hit the fucking pillow? They look at me like I'm the goddamn devil.
It's laughable.
I scan the crowd, picking out those who don't shy away from my gaze. Nolan and Niall Sullivan hold court near the bar, both in tailored tuxes that cost more than most people make in a year. They stare coldly before shifting their gazes away. Eamon Callahan, the other major player in the Irish mob, isn't far away, already red-faced from too much Jameson. The man drinks like he gambles—and he's no better at the first than he is at the second.
Kieran and Granger Devlin, brothers who'd love to stick a blade in Eamon's throat, recline against a wall across the room, speaking with…I tense when I see their companion. Adrian Lombardi. Of course that prick would be here. He runs shit for the Italians on this coast, and they're all about appearances.
My jaw clenches, my blood heating. I can't fucking stand him. He's been a thorn in my side for years, one I'd very much like to snatch out and grind beneath my boot. Unfortunately, it isn't in the cards tonight.
I came for one reason and one reason only.
Where is she?
My balls ache as I scan the ballroom, noting every exit and potential threat, while I search. Nolan Sullivan may like to pretend he plays by the same rules the rest of these motherfuckers do, but I'm not naive. He'd put a bullet in my head without hesitation if given half a chance. I don't intend to make it easy for him.
I'm not here for him either, though. I'm here for her.
My gaze skirts across the room again, searching out alabaster skin, crimson hair, and those perceptive, striking emerald eyes.
I'm not leaving this bullshit event until I get my hands on Brynna Sullivan and…
I go still.
My pulse stutters as my eyes land on her, a sudden clench low in my gut sending a shiver of anticipation through me.
Dio. She's breathtaking.
She looks like a goddamn princesa, something out of a fairytale. Her ballgown hugs her ample curves, the emerald green bringing out the striking color of her eyes. I want to fist my hands in the fabric, feel it tear beneath my fingers as I expose her creamy skin inch by inch.
Would she whimper? Beg me to stop?
Cristo, I bet she'd look so fucking sweet with my hand around her throat, gasping for breath while she gushed all over my cock.
Her fiery hair is piled up on top of her head in an elegant bun, exposing the graceful column of her throat. My mouth goes dry as I imagine my lips there, tasting her, feeling her pulse fluttering wildly against my tongue.
She laughs at something her brother says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've seen her real smile, and this isn't it. This is the same fake smile she reserves for the world—for people who don't understand her or what she wants or needs. It's a show designed to ensure people look no further than the surface.
Her real smile is incredible. When she's happy—truly happy—she fucking glows. She was glowing in that bookstore today while she browsed through the stacks, her fingers trailing over the spines of books I doubt anyone in this room has ever read. But those books bring her to life. I think being away from her family does, too.