Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“That trick we pulled last time won’t work again.”
“Maybe not, but I can still help.”
“No. My work is my own.”
“You need me,” she repeats more firmly this time. “I’m coming to that party, Prime.”
“Why are you insisting so hard?”
“You don’t see it, but I’ve been taking care of you since we first met. I’m not going to stop now because things got more dangerous. We made a deal and I’m going to honor it.”
I slip close and tug her tight against me, one hand locking against the small of her back. I dip down and kiss her neck. The clipboard clatters to the ground.
“You’re starting to like this, aren’t you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Fucking liar. I can almost smell how wet you are.”
“Prime!”
“You want danger? I can give you danger, love.”
“I want to get this over with, that’s all.”
“Right. I understand.” I nibble on her throat before biting her lower lip. “You keep acting so charming, it won’t be long.”
“Good. Sooner we’re done, the better.”
I hold her there for a long moment, my lips inches from hers, before forcing myself to release her. She steps back, smoothing her blouse, and bends down to sweep her clipboard back into her arms. When she straightens, it’s like she’s got her shield back in place.
God, this fucking girl. I’m ruined for her and I don’t know why. I desperately want to protect her, but she’s right. I need her at that party smiling and laughing and making everyone look at her.
While I find a way to continue my spiral into hell.
CHAPTER 21
DEANNA
“This is a cliche, right?” I lean against Prime’s arm as our driver drops us in front of an old school Italian restaurant. “We’re walking into a dim, smokey back room like we’re in some kind of gangster movie.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
“Oh my god, and I bet you’re going to smoke a cigar, right? And drink some bourbon?”
“In my defense, I always drink bourbon.”
“This is crazy. Seriously, how did my life end up like this?”
“Money.” He puts a hand on my thigh, leaning closer. “Power. Erotic pleasure—“
“Careful, we have a business meeting.”
“Right, we’ll save the erotic pleasure for later.”
Prime gets out and I follow. It’s a warm, muggy evening, and I feel overdressed yet again. He’s in a dark suit and I’m in a less formal dress, diamonds at my throat and on my ears like one of those women from Ricardo’s party.
I know I’m playing a role. I keep reminding myself that this isn’t me. I’m not the kind of girl who wears designer dresses and priceless jewelry to dinner with my husband. I don’t have a private driver and I don’t splurge on expensive shoes.
Except that’s me now. At least while I’m Prime’s wife.
There are benefits to embracing the darkness.
I can almost forget what bought all this fancy stuff.
I take Prime’s arm as we head inside. A young girl in all black greets us warmly like she’s been waiting for us all night and leads us through the room. More than a few heads turn to watch us pass, and it takes a lot of effort not to start giggling.
Prime gives me a warning glare as we’re taken into a smoky back room.
It’s exactly like I pictured. Big round table set with appetizers, a bottle of wine, glasses, a cigar burning away in an ash tray. Though there’s only one man here, not the dozen I had imagined.
Still, pretty damn close.
“Mr. Carbone.” Prime introduces the pair of us. “It’s good to meet you.”
“You as well, Mr. Spadaro.”
“Please call me Prime. Everyone does.”
“Very well. And this must be your lovely wife, Deanna. It’s a pleasure. Sit, let me pour your wine, get something to eat.”
“We appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Carbone.”
He makes humming noises as he bustles around us like waitstaff. Prime engages him in small talk, asking about the place, and they fall into an easy conversation about the restaurant business. I didn’t know Prime had ever owned a food service establishment before, but he sounds very familiar with the industry.
I listen and watch Marco Carbone closely. He’s the total opposite of Ricardo: knife thin with graying hair, light blue eyes, pale skin, and a serious demeanor. His smiles are pained and his laughter is like straining rocks for oil. He moves with confidence, but always under complete control. More than once I catch him returning my scrutiny with a curious angle of his head and I have to resist the urge to show him how uncomfortable it makes me.
“I was surprised when Ricardo mentioned you were interested in doing business, Mr. Carbone.” Prime leans back, swirling his glass of wine. No bourbon, but close. The exchange lurched away from niceties. Carbone’s shoulders tense, the only outward sign that he’s paying more attention. “We’re always looking for new investors.”
Carbone fiddles with a lighter. He flicks it open, lights the flame, snaps the top shut. He does this a few times before puffing on his cigar. “I’ll admit, I haven’t been as aggressive in my business practices as I should be for some time now. It’s easy, in our line of work, to find a successful vein and to keep mining it forever. One can get complacent, do you understand what I mean?”