Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
With her sharp tongue and lack of discipline, what she needs is a firm hand, not a job. The more she tests my limits, the more tempted I am to bend her over my knee.
As a Russian Mafia boss and owner of Chicago's most elite gambling club, I can't afford distractions from her antics.
Or her secrets.
For I suspect, my innocent new assistant is hiding something.
And I know just how to get to the truth.
It's high time she understands who holds the power in our relationship.
To ensure I get what I desire, I'll keep her close, controlling her every move.
Except I am no longer after information—I want her mind, body and soul.
She underestimated the stakes of our dangerous game and now owes a heavy price. She's mine now.
Mine.
Sweet Animosity continues the steamy, enemies to lovers' drama featuring the domineering Russian Mafia men of Zoe's Ruthless Obsession series. Scroll up and one click now.
Publisher's This is the eighth novel, and part of a new trilogy, in Zoe Blake's Ruthless Obsession series. It is a standalone that contains adult themes. Please refrain from purchasing if such content is not to your liking.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
VIVIAN
Crashing down into his arms from the ceiling was trouble enough, but his furious gaze was worse.
I was now in serious danger.
The problem with working with criminals was that they were, well… criminals.
I couldn’t trust a single one of them as far as I could throw them.
This bastard owed me money and was skipping town without paying.
I didn’t care that he was some big, fancy dictator of some country I’d never even heard of.
A deal was a deal. I’d held up my end. Now he needed to pay up.
Although it wouldn’t provide much protection, I stuffed a switchblade into my Marc Jacobs tote bag before storming down to the warehouse.
The knife was more of a novelty item, with its pink pearl handle covered in silver glitter hearts, but strictly speaking—it was still a freaking knife.
And would show him I meant business.
After entering the warehouse from the loading dock, my first warning was the horrible, rotten egg smell. This differed from the usual moldy wood and stale urine stench that permeated the century-old brick and cement building.
The hair on the back of my neck rose as I approached the hallway, which led to Abakar’s office. My ears strained to hear the usual banal conversation about dog track races and women from the two bodyguards, who were usually stationed outside the door.
Nothing.
The hallway wasn’t silent as much as there wasn’t any sound.
It was too silent.
Like a forest with no bird song.
If I didn’t need the money, I would have fled.
That stupid commission took me six months. I worked on it to the exclusion of all other projects. I had rent due, a car payment, bills, and a designer purse addiction to feed.
Abakar owed me a lot of money. I couldn’t afford to just walk away.
My steps slowed as I neared a corner. I cautiously inched forward and peeked around the brick edge.
Several large men dressed all in black and holding guns marched down the opposite end of the hall. My gaze shifted to Abakar’s reinforced steel office door. Two twining curls of smoke rose from the hinges. The source of the acrid sulphur stench.
It was a hit squad.
No amount of money was worth my life.
With panic overwhelming me, I turned and sprinted up the closest staircase.
The moment I reached the landing, I realized my mistake. The second level of the warehouse was just a massive open space filled with litter and dust, but nothing else. Nowhere to hide.
Before retracing my steps, I heard the hollow ping of metal clanging against cement echoing down the hall. Then raised, angry voices.
It was too late.
As I spun in a circle, I spotted the maintenance access panel. I thrust my hand into my purse and shifted it around the bottom, searching by touch for my switchblade.
After I pulled it free from the confines of my bag, I flicked it open while grasping its ridiculous pink handle. With the somewhat dull edge wedged between the rusted panel and the wall, I pried the access door open.
With an anxious glance over my shoulder, I crawled into the dusty vent. The tight space allowed me to barely twist and close the panel door.
Every movie I had ever seen was a freaking lie.
Air ducts were not shiny shafts of slippery metal.
They were dark, dusty, cobweb-filled portals to hell.
This was, without a doubt, one of the dumbest things I had ever done. I should have taken my chances on the second floor, or raced back to the loading dock and acted clueless if caught, or I don’t know… maybe called the police.
It wasn’t like the police would find out what I’d done.
They’d be too busy focusing on the sinister, heavily tattooed, gun-wielding hit squad to be worried about my crime. Especially since, technically, I wasn’t the one committing the crime. I was merely providing a service.
No one blames the manufacturer when someone gets in a car crash.
Oh, wait. Crap, they do.
The analogy sucked, but my point was the same.
I wasn’t the criminal; I was more… criminal adjacent.
And it wasn’t my fault. A girl’s gotta eat—and buy expensive designer purses.
My fingers fluttered over my lips as I wiped yet another cobweb away.
Seeing the spider from these webs would end my fear of being murdered. Because I would let out such a bloodcurdling scream, the whole damn building would come down around my ears.
My shoulders hitched up and tensed as the rubber sole of my boots squeaked against the metal. After a brief pause, I resumed my agonizingly slow crawl along the vent, hoping to reach the opening to a space where there was no shouting or guns.
My fingertips brushed something in the dark.
Something with fur.
I was now terrified of something other than spiders.
Forgetting all about the scary men, the guns, and the money I was owed, I let out a horrified cry and scrambled along the air duct, which rumbled and thundered with my every movement, as if I were a storm cloud chasing the gloom.