Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Vincent holds the olive to my lips and even as I stubbornly refuse, I can feel myself giving in. Not only does the olive look delectable, especially considering how hungry I am. How he is holding it—patiently, hovering just beyond my mouth as if this man is temptation personified—is more than I can take.
I open my mouth slightly, and he slides the olive onto my tongue. It’s every bit as delicious as he described.
“Good girl,” he smiles as he reaches for another one.
I mentally scold myself for enjoying this so much and for letting this gorgeous monster feed me as if I’m his pet. But I can’t help it, despite myself. He’s breaking down my resistance bit by bit with every bite.
He could have barged in here and held me down and shoved food into my mouth. Instead, he did things this way, almost tenderly.
I can’t figure this guy out.
Following a few more delicious bites, just as mouthwatering as the olives, pausing, I inquire.
“Why did you kill that man backstage?” I ask, careful to watch his expression and not push things too far. “Why kill a ballet dancer?”
“That man wasn’t a dancer,” Vincent replies with disdain.
Whoever the man was, he wasn’t part of Madame Durant’s troupe, or I would have known of him personally. And whoever he was, it’s very apparent that Vincent didn’t like him.
“Who was he then?”
“A man without honor. I killed him because he betrayed me, and because betrayal is an unforgivable sin.”
There’s a strange and intense expression in Vincent’s eyes. I can’t quite read what it is. Could he have any sort of moral code of conduct after what he’s done?
“And murder isn’t?” I ask.
“It depends,” he says as he reaches to pull up the blanket to tuck over my legs.
“On what?”
“On whether someone deserves to be killed. I also don’t take kindly to men who bring affairs of business into my house of peace at the ballet,” he says. “That’s where I go to calm my mind and appreciate beautiful things. That man thought he could hide from me there, but he was gravely mistaken, as most are. There is no hiding from men like me.”
My brain is practically screaming at me, telling me that “men like him” are the kind my mother warned me about—the kind that lurk in the city in dark alleys and underground warehouses, that live in expensive high-rises with paid henchmen guarding the doors. But as Vincent stands up and walks quietly out of my room, lingering at the door to look back at me in my bed, I’m filled with more longing than I am apprehension. My stomach is now comfortably full. The warm blanket that he pulled up around me is already coaxing my eyelids to close, and the rest of my body is still tingling from the touch of his fingertips at the side of my neck.
Tonight, I expected hunger pangs and a desperate need for escape from this place. But I find myself fixated on the way he moves as he steps out of the room, and secretly hating myself for craving his touch.
Something about Vincent Moretti is unlocking parts of myself that I never knew were even within me, and I’m not so sure whether that’s a good thing or an extremely dangerous one.
CHAPTER 4
VINCENT
“You can take the night off, Junior,” I say as I walk through the penthouse and release Marco from his post tonight. “I’m going to be staying here tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” he nods before leaving.
I rarely stay overnight unless casino work extends past midnight. I prefer the peace of my home. But I can’t seem to drag myself away from this beguiling, albeit obstinate, ballerina. She is quickly becoming an unexpected obsession that isn’t leaving my head.
And that tattoo, the little bird flying free behind her ear—it triggered a memory that I’ve kept buried deep down in my past for a long while now, one that brings me no pleasure to remember.
The penthouse is quiet now. The staff has all gone home for the night, and the only inside guard is usually Junior. His departure leaves only the guards outside. I always keep things carefully guarded. There is, however, no better guard than I am, so Isla is more than safe with me staying here tonight. The question is whether I’m safe from myself and my own descending memories that are now filling my head.
I walk over to the minibar and pour myself a whisky neat before taking the glass with me to the window. Standing here above the city sprawled out at my feet makes me feel like a God and reminds me of all that I’ve done to amass the power that I now have here. It makes me feel invincible. All of this—my entire empire of casinos and underground deals, my men, my image as being a ruthless mafia kingpin that none dare to cross—I built it all myself on bone and brilliance. And only I control it.