Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Your arrogance never fails to impress me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I suppose I’ll have to find other ways to impress you as well then.”
“Good luck with that.”
“You’re a challenge, love, and I like it.” He beams at me before turning back to Niall. The two of them engage in a debate over the next fight, and I sink back into my seat to watch for a little while.
That feeling slips through me again. Memories of my father and my old life play through my head. I’ve been trying to outrun them for a while now, and when I had a plan with Marco, I could distract myself with revenge.
But now all that grief and loneliness is catching up.
I excuse myself and get out of the booth. I hurry to the exit, not looking back. I’m not sure if Ronan notices when I leave, but it doesn’t matter. I should say goodbye, thank him for his hospitality like a normal person, but I feel tears welling up and I don’t want him to see me cry.
God, I miss this so much. I miss my father, my friends, my family.
But it’s all gone.
Once outside, I take deep breaths to get myself together. No tears tonight. Dad hated when I cried. He was patient with me when I was little, but as I got older, he had to sit me down one night and explain that emotions were fine, crying was fine, but never, ever where someone could see. A Santoro was strong. Always strong.
I don’t feel strong.
“Wait up, love.” Ronan appears in the doorway and follows after me. “You ran off.”
I wipe my face and force myself to smile at him. “Sorry. Just done for the night.”
He’s not smirking now. “You all right?” he asks, voice soft.
“I’m fine, seriously, go back inside. Your men probably miss you already.”
He snorts and looks back at the building. Ronan looks so handsome when he’s not grinning at me. “I doubt that. Not all of them love me the way you do, darling.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
He glances back, eyebrows raised. “You would see it, wouldn’t you?” he says softly. “Grew up in this world.”
“Trained by the best Don the city’s ever seen, remember?” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice, but it’s not easy.
“You’re clever, Val. You’re good at this.”
“Too bad that doesn’t matter.” I touch his arm, thinking I’ll be polite and end this conversation before I get upset, but I like the muscle under his tight suit. A little pulse of excitement rushes down into my stomach, and I have to quickly pull away. “I should head back home.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“I’m fine, really—”
“Until you’re in the damn car, at least.” He dares me to argue, and I just give in. We walk together the whole half block to where I parked my crappy sedan, and he stands by while I get myself situated. He doesn’t move until I’m buckled, the engine’s on, and I’m half pulled out.
Ronan raises a hand as I drive off.
I glance in the mirror. What is with him all of a sudden? I’ve known Ronan for a while through Marco, and he never gave a crap about me before. Now he’s coming after me and making sure I’m okay? He’s walking me to my car? I don’t get it, and I’m not sure I want to.
I grew up in this world, but so did he, and he knows how to play the game as well as I do.
Chapter 9
Ronan
I’m distracted the next day. My head’s still back at Bloody Strike in the booth next to Valentina. I keep lingering on her smile, thinking about the way she sipped her drink, the way her dress hugged her lovely curves, her thick dark hair, and the way she smelled: floral and subtle.
I could tell the boys didn’t like having an Italian girl like Val around, but fuck them. She was looking for something last night, and I’m not sure what, but I can tell she didn’t find it.
Not yet, anyway.
“My god, Ronan, I swear to fuck, you look out the window one more time like you can’t wait to leave and I will put a gun to your head.” Julien snaps his fingers at me, the French twat. “Yes, now I see you are listening.” He makes a face and leans back, lighting a cigarette. He blows smoke in a long exhale.
“I’m not going to apologize. You’re boring as fuck.”
Julien rolls his eyes. “Nique tes morts, fils de pute.”
“Love it when you curse in French.”
“Yes, I know this, you are a disgusting freak.” He sighs and shakes his head. The cafe owner hurries over and asks if we need anything else, but Julien dismisses him. I drink my coffee as soft Indie folk music drifts out from hidden speakers. The place is a trendy spot on the edge of downtown with lots of wood and metal like it wants to be an industrial warehouse instead of a shop that sells overpriced bean water.