Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Deadly malice flares in his eyes before they turn to stone. He pinches my nipple again and then slowly pulls his hand away. "What did they do to you, Finley?"
I sit up slowly. Only then do I realize I'm still in the same crop top and panties I wore to bed last night. The purple blanket from my bed is draped over a chaise across the room, but the rest of the room is black. Black sheets, black comforter, black furniture. It's expensive and elegant. And as unrelentingly dark as this man's soul.
We're in his home. I'm not sure why I'm so certain, but I just am. It matches him.
I consider pulling the covers up over myself to hide my body from his gaze, but then say screw it. He's already seen everything. He's had his hand on my breast. I'm not going to cower and hide. I'm not going to crumble and fall apart. I've never been the delicate girl who cries at the drop of a hat. This is a big hat and a monumental drop, but I won't cry now, either. So I'm half naked in a stranger's bed. It's not even the strangest part of my night.
"Tell me," he growls, rising to his feet.
"I'll answer your questions if you answer mine," I negotiate. It's the one thing my uncle taught me…find a place of power and do whatever it takes to keep it. That's how I grew up. That's the big lesson I learned in life. Knowledge is power. Right now, I have neither.
He seems amused again, as if he knows exactly what I'm doing. But he plays along. "Fine. You ask your question. I'll ask mine, mio sole."
"Why were you at my uncle's house?"
"To plant listening devices."
"Why?"
"That's two questions, Finley."
"No, it's one. You just gave an incomplete response to the first."
The smile he gives this time is no simile. It's genuine. "Fair enough. Your uncle is a problem for us. This city belongs to La Cosa Nostra. He's forgotten that. We're handling the problem."
"By planting listening devices."
"Yes."
"Ho–"
"That's another question," he says, cutting me off. "It's my turn. What did they do to you?"
"Nothing." It's not entirely untrue. It's not necessarily the truth, either. It's the word that dances that razor's edge in between reality and fiction. The one that says nothing and everything all at once.
"And yet you don't care if I kill them."
"Monsters are monsters, Domani."
He plants a knee on the bed, his face suddenly looming in front of mine like a snake striking. One hand curls around my jaw, gently tipping my head back. The anger banked in his eyes turns my nipples to glass points. "Don't lie to me, Finley. What did they do to you?"
"Nothing," I whisper, my heart pounding an erratic beat. "They didn't do anything to me, Domani."
"And yet you have rope burns on your wrists and hatred in your eyes."
"Do you know how many people they killed in that house?" I ask, licking my lips. His face is inches from mine, so close I see the gold flecks in his eyes. I smell the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. I want him to kiss me, as crazy as it is. He loathes my uncle, and so do I. He's the lesser of two evils. The enemy of my enemy and all. But I'd be lying if I said that's all the desire was. It's not. I know that on a fundamental level.
There's something about this man that tempts me even though it shouldn't. There's something about him I crave even though I shouldn't. He wants to own me…and part of me wants to let him.
"Do you know how many people I heard begging for their lives, Domani? How many times I laid in bed while the stench of burning flesh filled the house from the incinerator in the basement?"
"Cristo. You were there?"
"One year, nine months, eighteen days."
"What are you counting, mio sole?"
"How long it's been since I arrived in Chicago." I swallow. "How long it's been since I left that house."
Shock widens his eyes, followed by fury. "You've been locked in that fucking house for over a year?"
"Welcome to life as an Irish banphrionsa. I envy your principessas. At least they have freedom. I don't. I never have," I say quietly. "Since the day my father was murdered and Cillian took over as head of our family, I've been a prisoner in my own life, trapped like a rat in a cage."
"How old were you?"
"Eleven."
"How long has he been tying you to your bed?"
"On and off for years. Every time he decides I'm thinking about running away." I snort indelicately. "As if I could ever escape him."
"You've escaped him now, Finley."
For the moment, at least. But freedom comes with a price. And the one I suspect this man wants me to pay might be higher than I can afford. But I don't tell him that.