Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
What I see instead is a tyrant, drunk on his own dominion.
When I don’t break, his lip curls with venom and with brutal force he yanks me from the chair, dragging me across the front of his desk like I’m nothing but weight to be shifted. His face is a breath away, his nose pressed against mine, his rage spilling like hot lava against my skin.
“Where was the phone call telling me there was a second body? That you had to kill Saintlyn James because she was a witness.”
“I’m sorry.” I force the words out of my mouth, but they’re nothing more than garbled nonsense.
A heinous laugh escapes him. “You’re sorry?” He shakes his head, and I can feel his anger, taste it. “No son, you aren’t. Not yet, but you will be.” The words are a roar rattling the air, spittle flecking my cheek as he bares his teeth like a rabid dog. “You don’t run the show! This is my kingdom. My law. My blood keeps this empire alive. And you—” he pulls me closer, the wood biting into my ribs. “Have the audacity to disrespect me, to break my fucking rules?”
Every word digs like a blade, but I keep my jaw locked, my teeth grinding together until I taste copper.
“One son. One duty.” He hisses, and his voice is heavy with contempt. “And you stumble like a fucking child. Maybe I should skin the weakness out of you, piece by piece, until even your bones scream loyalty. What do you think? Should I drag you out to the yard and break you in front of the men? Make an example out of you, teach them that a Bishop doesn’t get a free pass, not even my own blood.”
I expected this. I expected him to react with anger, and rage but I didn’t think it would be this explosive.
“Won’t lie. I’d enjoy watching their faces when they see how easily I can turn my son into an example.”
A chill creeps down my spine, one I can’t mask. Because the bastard means it. I’ve seen him do worse for far less crimes. The images flash in the spots behind my eyelids, men begging on their knees, the way their screams echoed into silence. For a heartbeat, I wonder if this is the moment he finally decides that I’m no different. His own flesh and blood—just another lesson to carve into history.
And darker still, the thought slices through me like poison: if pushed hard enough, would I do the same? Would I become him?
“There is no excuse for sloppy behavior. You’re a Bishop. You’re my fucking son. There is a standard to be upheld. It doesn’t matter if you were going to tell me, you should’ve done so the moment plans changed. I trained you better than this.” He grits his teeth, disappointment slicing through me. “There was no reason Martin should have gotten away. No reason for the preacher’s daughter to be involved.”
With a disgruntled shove he releases me, and I land back in my chair with a thud. I suck a ragged breath into my lungs and meet his gaze. “I know, and it won’t happen again.” I croak, my throat throbbing.
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. I won’t have my oldest son, my enforcer, making a mockery of me or our family name.” The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I know he wants to hurt me, to physically punish me for disappointing him, and I’m sure he will. It just won’t be with his fists. “If I wanted mistakes to be made, I’d have asked Kade to do the job.”
It’s a low blow, and it slices deeper than any blade. My stomach knots, fury warring with shame until bile rises in my throat. Kade, my reckless, hot-headed brother, who he feels is barely fit to carry the Bishop name. Somehow my father paints me as worse, in this instance?
I keep my hands locked on the arms of the chair to stop them from shaking. Because what he doesn’t know, what I’m terrified he’ll find out, is that the job was worse than sloppy.
It was reckless.
Dangerous.
A single witness who should’ve been silenced could unravel everything. Could cost me my life.
“Understood.”
“What did you do with the girl? Wayne says you buried her elsewhere.” It’s the question I’ve been dreading, delivered with the casualness of asking about the weather.
I take a calculated risk. “I snapped her neck, and figured that burying her elsewhere would eliminate any future troubles.”
“Hmmmm. I’m not sure if I believe you. Not when you fail to share valuable information with me.”
“It was a mistake that I will not make again.”
For a few seconds he studies me, searching for the lie he can sense but can’t quite pinpoint. Roman Bishop has an almost supernatural ability to detect deception. It’s served him well in building his empire, in knowing exactly when someone needs to be taught a lesson they won’t survive. “At least you didn’t fuck that up.” He finally nods, apparently satisfied. “I’d hate to think you couldn’t pull the trigger on some preacher’s daughter.”