Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
He doesn’t speak, not when he puts me in the back of an SUV or when he slams the door after climbing in behind me. He stays silent the entire drive home. The only noises are the occasional crack of his knuckles as he flexes and unflexes his fists, and the grinding of his teeth when no number of “I’m safe” mantras stop me from uncontrollably shaking.
“Thank you,” I huskily murmur when Marco hands me my backpack once we reach the underground garage of my building. He must have gathered it from the broom closet when Dante and his brothers stormed the event.
With a tsk that signals to Marco he shouldn’t follow, Dante tugs me out of the SUV and walks me to the elevator. We ride to the twelfth floor in silence. Dante’s jaw is clenched so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t crack, but he doesn’t say a word.
His silence scares me more than anything I faced tonight.
We enter his apartment, and he steers me straight toward the bathroom. I feel a bruise forming on my hip when he lifts me to sit on the vanity, but I act nonchalant. There’s enough torment in his eyes; he doesn’t need more.
I don’t wince when he presses his thumbs to each side of my nose to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s not, but you wouldn’t believe that if you could see his expression. You’d swear I was bruised head to toe.
He drinks in every inch of my face before his focus shifts to my wrists. They’re a little achy but thankfully bruise-free.
When I take in my reflection in the full-length mirror, I don’t look any different than I did in the broom closet thirty minutes ago.
Well, except that one gleam. But now isn’t the time to discuss that.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
“I’m fine,” I assure Dante when his assessment shifts to my scuffed elbows. They’re not bleeding. They’re a little rough from thrashing against the carpeted floor as I attempted to fight off my attackers.
When Dante continues to fuss, I place my hands over his, stilling them, then silently coerce eye contact. My heart thumps erratically when he finally grants my request. His eyes are utterly broken, and they tug at my heartstrings.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice subdued but honest.
Only once he authenticates the honesty in my tone does his voice shake with fury. “Name your price.”
Lines scour my forehead. “What?”
He’s too angry to accept my daft plea tonight.
Anger radiates off him in invisible heat waves as he steps closer.
“Name your fucking price,” he repeats, louder this time, his words ripping out of him as my heart would have ripped out of my chest if he had arrived tonight five minutes later. “How much were you going to earn tonight?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The fear I felt tonight hurt, but this, his terrified expression, is so much worse.
“Answer me, Lucia. How much did they have to pay per head to fucking rape you!”
“Stop it,” I whisper, my fight lost to the fear I may lose him forever. He isn’t looking at me like he usually does. He isn’t even looking at me anymore. He’s seeing straight through me.
“No. Answer me. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It matters to me! How much?”
I fling a tear off my cheek that his roar pops from my eye before murmuring, “Ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand?” His laugh is mocking and cruel. “Wow. Ten thousand divided by a hundred is a measly hundred dollars. I thought the going rate for prostitution was more than that per penetration.”
Although I deserve his anger, I can’t help but retaliate. “Stop it. You’re being cruel.”
“Cruel? I’m being cruel?” He bends his knees, bringing us eye to eye. Even with me seated on the vanity, he still towers over me. “They were going to tear you to shreds! They were going to fucking rape you. Do you understand that?”
“I would have fought them off.”
His disbelieving chuckle is the most painful to date.
After a brief pace of the bathroom, he rakes his fingers through his hair, fluffing up his scent. It’s clear he’s seeking five minutes of peace when he says, “A hundred dollars per penetration times the legally aged men in Carlisle is…” His eyes, still narrowed and tormented, glaze over as he calculates a figure. “A little over two million.”
When he exits the bathroom at the speed of a bullet, I leap off the vanity and follow him. From my station at the end of the hallway, I track him when he moves to the far wall of the living room. With a quick flick, he knocks a painting off the wall and enters a six-digit PIN into a hidden wall safe. Far more bundles than the three I deposited last week into Edoardo’s offshore account are in his safe. Possibly hundreds.