Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Don Salvatore leaps to his feet, waves his meaty hand. He’s in his fifties, unfit, thinking that his position and his ancestors give him power. That he has the right to do any damn thing he wants.
“Stop that! Now!”
I take aim, wait, breathe steadily. Julian pads quietly along the balcony, and the other men spread out, aiming at the different ranking members of this so-called Family.
As I wait for the guards to run out of the room, I reflect that this was never a family. It was power. It was manipulation. An excuse for this bastard to do anything he wanted.
It was old men preying on boys like me. Boys who’ve lost their real families, looking for a place to call home.
Finally, when the guards have filed out, I pull the trigger. Salvatore moves at the last moment. The bullet catches him in the neck, and he drops to the ground, hidden behind the barrier separating him from the stage.
With gunfire cracking all around me, I sprint for the stage rope. Leap off the balcony and slide down it, my leather gloves burning as I slide down and then slam onto the stage.
I leap over the barrier swiftly. A bullet hits me in the back, pounding into my Kevlar vest. I grunt and fall forward. Turn to correct that mistake. But one of our men has already handled it, blood pouring from the shooter’s face. He slumps onto the floor like a sack of shit.
I ignore the pain pulsing in my spine. Let it join the rest of the pain. Add it to the goddamn ticket.
Leaping over the barrier, I find Salvatore on his back, blood spurting from his neck. He’s got a gun in his hand. He makes a pathetic whining noise when I crush his wrist under my boot.
All around us, men are fighting, screaming, shooting. But I don’t hear them. It’s like we get a small pocket of calm from inside the storm.
He smiles ruefully, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Always—thought—it’d—be—you…”
I kneel and wrap my hand around his throat. This is the same hand that can gently cradle Celine. That can hold her as she pulls herself against me, sheltering her from the winter cold. This is the same hand that can love.
He whines as I crush his bullet wound.
“You should’ve finished the job, Salvatore,” I say.
The shooting around us has stopped. I hear Julian’s voice like it’s coming from far away. “Find the girls! Now!”
“Buh-Beast,” he grunts.
“If that’s who I have to be to stop men like you from taking over, then that’s what I’ll be,” I snarl.
“We could’ve—made—millions,” he groans. “Why wouldn’t you just die?”
Maybe fate had something different in store for me. Perhaps the universe knew I’d find a woman who would heal me, not just physically. Maybe fate knew there was a beauty waiting for this Beast.
“Any last words, Salvatore?”
His eyes widen as if he’s finally realized this is really the end.
“Wuh-wait. I’ve got cash. Millions. I can give it to yo—”
I shot him in the face.
When I stand, I’m covered in blood. The presenter’s white uniform is stained in thick red as he lies motionless on the stage. All around me, men lie dead and dying. Mario finishes a man off with a bullet to the head, and then looks up at me.
“You did it, Beast,” he says.
I leap over the stage, holstering my gun, following Julian’s voice. He stands at the top of a set of stairs as girls rush past, heading for the exit. I watch them, their faces pockmarked with terror, clutching their ragged clothes to their too-thin bodies.
I watch them, and a tear pricks my eye.
I wipe it away, blood smearing my face like war paint.
Taking out my cellphone, I call Agent Keane. It takes a lot of discipline to do this when there’s only one person I want to call right now.
My Snowflake.
“Damian,” Thomas says, answering.
“Got twenty-some girls who need your help and a bloodbath that needs cleaning up. Salvatore Luciani is dead. His consigliere is dead. It’s a cemetery here.”
A pause, then he says, “Give me the address.”
CHAPTER 32
CELINE
Isit on the bed, knees to my chest, trying not to devolve into panic. My mind is an evil slideshow of all the things that could be happening to my brother and my man.
My man.
The phrase fits snugly into my mind, sparkling there like it belongs, like the very idea of it not belonging doesn’t even make sense.
Sitting still for longer than a few minutes is impossible. I stand, pace, wringing my hands so much my fingers begin to hurt. It’s a strange feeling being numb to the core and also so panicked I think I might have an attack: a sick mixture that has no place interfering with Christmas.
Well, this is going to be the most insane Christmas, no matter what happens. I just hope I don’t lose everything.