Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Who the fuck did that?
I scroll until I see the comment.
Then the second one.
And the third.
My gaze grows instantly hazy, my knuckles turning white when I grip my phone so hard.
Romance novels don’t make up for the fact that you’re basic as hell. Try a real hobby.
I’ll give him a real fucking hobby involving my fist and his fucking face. I click on his profile pic. Balding, middle-aged douchebag with a double chin.
My jaw drops when I see another comment. The fucking nerve?
Why hasn’t she deleted this shit?
All that fantasizing, and you still look like you’d bore a guy to death in five minutes.
Five minutes? I’d end him in one. The fucking son of a goddamn—
Reading about mafia guys won’t make one want you. Stick to the fairytales, sweetheart.
Real mafia guys? I’ll give him real mafia guys.
Davay posmotrim, kak tebe ponravitsya, suka blyad.
Let’s see how the little bitch would like this.
My phone buzzes with text after text I ignore. Before I can stop myself, I type a response to the online douche.
Bratvabloodline
You want to take that up with a real man, princess? Cute. Disrespect her again, and I’ll remind you how much those keyboard warrior hands can hurt when they’re broken.
I stab at the screen.
Within seconds, my comment’s liked, and the comments below it start flooding in.
He’s defending her! Like a real made man! Gahhhh, Be still my beating ovaries!
“Oooooh. Real men do exist, and here’s one right here. On brand, sir. On. Brand.
I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be doing this.
I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose.
It’s just an online comment. Relax.
That son of a bitch wouldn’t have the nerve to say that to my face.
An online comment from a real guy who hurt a real girl who I actually—
No. I don’t even know her.
I stare at my screen, willing her to reply to me, when I see another notification pop up.
It’s her.
Heartbeats thundering, I click on her video.
There she is.
My girl.
Flaming red hair hanging down in waves, those vibrant green eyes boring straight into mine. I don’t even hear what she says, and I don’t read the caption. It’s another book, but this time, I notice something in the background.
It’s a tiny white cup in the corner of the screen with the words Brookie Bites in typewriter font letters.
I screenshot the video and zoom in. It’s blurry, but I know exactly what that logo is because it belongs to the coffee shop right down the street from me.
No. There’s no way.
I click on her profile, but she doesn’t have her location on, just a general Southern California.
Good girl.
My heart races faster.
I knew I saw her before.
Where?
My phone dings and buzzes, and I practically drop it while I ignore my brothers’ messages and quickly google the coffee shop. Surely, there have to be—
No.
There’s ONE, and it’s right here in California.
It can’t be.
She’s right here in my city.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I have to get it together, and now.
NOW.
With effort, I click on the screen and go to the messages from my brothers.
Thankfully, they’re talking amongst themselves and haven’t noticed my absence.
Rafail sent me specs on the third asshole I’m tracking down today. This one will be harder. The first, a middle-aged accountant with ties to multiple shell companies, folded like a cheap suit after a few broken bones. The second, a wannabe tough guy hiding behind a fake identity, couldn’t last more than a few minutes under pressure.
But this guy? He’s a slippery son of a bitch. Arnold Prokhorov, ex-Bratva turned freelance operator, knows how to disappear. Multiple aliases, offshore accounts, and a knack for slipping through cracks, even the best trackers struggle to follow. He’s been playing cat and mouse with the family for years, leaving a trail of dirty deals and dead partners.
But hey, I like the challenge.
Slipping a knife onto the counter that I’ll bring with me, I send a quick reply to Rafail: On it.
Gym first.
Prokhorov second.
Still… my mind is on Ember. The asshole who disrespected her, the fire in her eyes.
Is she feeling the pull between us? Is that why she hasn’t responded to me?
I groan when my phone dings with another notification. I have to get my ass to the gym and ground myself in sweat and hard work so I stop this bullshit already.
But when I check my phone… it’s her.
My heart tumbles in my chest. I click the message.
Dreammafiaqueen
You don’t need to fight my online battles with those self-serving comments, thank you very much. I can handle myself. I don’t answer online pricks. I leave them because the more engagement my posts get, the more follows I have, and unlike some people, I’m not just doing this for attention.
I stare at the screen and frown, my fingers flying over the screen.
Excuse me for defending your honor. The prick deserved it. If I—