Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
I flung the throw off me, darting to my bedroom. Sure enough, a giant box of books rested on my mattress. I dove toward it, piling stacks of hardcovers onto my Somerset duvet. There must’ve been a dozen of them. At least.
A frown touched my lips. A Radical History of Finance. The Psychology of Money. The Savage Investor. Each title was worse than the last. We all knew the only books I consumed boasted a liberal dose of the words cock, pussy, and cum. What possessed him to think I’d ever read these? Another form of punishment, no doubt.
Really, I’d done Romeo a favor, seeing as this place hadn’t seen a renovation since the 1800s and was in dire need of modernization. In fact, while the restoration team was at it, maybe they could replace the ugly Lincoln-era crystal monstrosity hanging in the foyer with a shiny LED Sputnik chandelier.
I returned all the hardcovers back to their box. In addition to being full of books I’d rather torch my eyeballs than read, I couldn’t be certain Romeo hadn’t done something to them. Like coat the pages with rat poison. I stared at the box, debating what to do. Whether to donate it or whether he’d tampered with the contents somehow. It would be just my luck to end up behind bars after unintentionally sending poisoned books to the local Salvation Army.
I decided not to chance it, calling for Vernon through the intercom system.
His voice rasped past the speaker a few seconds later. “Vernon speaking.”
“I spotted a bonfire pit a few weeks ago. Is that available for me to use?”
“The one on the east side of the property? Overlooking the Potomac?”
“I think so. Can you set up a fire for me?”
“You got it, sweetheart.”
Chapter Forty
Romeo
I strode through Costa Industries’ lobby, carrying a stack of documents. At almost midnight, I was in no hurry to return to my personal agent of chaos. The building was dead, save for my father, whom, ironically, I wished was dead. I barged into his corner office.
“It is common courtesy to knock before walking into someone’s place.”
I invited myself to the seat in front of him. “It is common courtesy not to fuck your son’s live-in fiancée.”
Senior’s mouth drew in a flat, dissatisfied line. I would never stop reminding him he was in no position to lecture me about conduct. Not after I’d walked into my penthouse to find my father eating my fiancée’s pussy for lunch.
She’d sprawled spread-eagle on our dining table, still in the Louboutins I’d gifted her for Christmas. As for Senior, he continued licking his own cum out of her. I kicked Morgan out in her birthday suit, despite the fact that it was mid-December and colder than some chambers of my heart. Enjoyed a whisky from my balcony as she did the walk of shame in nothing more than her heels before a cop car collected her.
Afterward, Senior and I struck a deal. I agreed not to narc to Monica that he cheated on her—again. In turn, he made me the youngest CFO in Costa Industries’ history. At twenty-four, I handled billions in contracts. I did a fine job, but the master plan was always to reduce everything Senior loved to nothing but cinders.
He wanted heirs. So, I gave him none.
He loved his company more than the oxygen he consumed. So, I vowed to destroy the company, liquidate it, and burn the money, if need be, just to see the pain in his face before he croaked.
Morgan represented my one and only attempt at normalcy.
And my father annihilated this effort.
Senior pushed back in his seat. “Are you going to hold this over my head for eternity?” His hands shook. Lately, they always did.
I yawned. “You didn’t dent my car. You fucked my fiancée.”
His forehead creased like a crumpled napkin. “You haven’t used profanity in years. You’re changing.”
I was tired of people telling me how much I’d changed since Shortbread waltzed into my life. As it was, even in the midst of conversation, my thoughts wandered to Dallas. Where else? I’d shown little interest in world affairs since my dick found out my wife’s pussy was its favorite location.
I boomeranged the documents on his desk. “Let’s cut to the chase.”
“Licht Holdings went public this morning.”
“Thanks for yesterday’s newsflash.” I rifled through the paper, hunting for a particular one. “I haven’t been able to sit down with Thomas Reynolds.” Mainly because I was busy breaking up a house party and attending to the important task of fucking Dallas’s pretty mouth. “But I spoke to him on the phone last night. He confirmed the DOD is leaning toward not renewing the contract with us.”
My father rubbed his cheek as if my words had slapped him. “Did he say why?”
“Our tech is dated compared with Licht’s.” I found what I was searching for—a list of weapons and artillery Licht Holdings manufactured for a fraction of our retail price—and slid it his way. “Not to mention, they’re simply more affordable. They manufacture in the South, while you stayed in New England, where minimum wage is much higher. They also struck some lucrative deals with steel and chip companies.”