Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
No steam.
No shower.
And worst of all, no Sarica.
The old him would've cursed up a storm at this point. But all he could do now was drag breath into his lungs as he struggled to regain control over his emotions.
It was always like this.
Night after night after night.
Sarica haunting his dreams...the way she shadowed his every waking moment.
How long, God?
How long?
A king who went by the name of David had groaned these words out in his pain, thinking that God had forgotten him.
But what Giancarlo wanted was the opposite.
How long, God?
How long before he could forget Sarica existed?
He stepped out onto the balcony. Breathed the desert air of Kivr. But unlike before, its mix of sun and sand was no longer enough to wipe out lingering memories of his old life from his mind. Before him stretched the capital of Kivr, one of the most ancient and greatest jewels of the Arabian peninsula.
But all he could see was her.
And all he could feel was a dull ache in that space which she used to occupy in his heart.
He turned away as the city came to life.
Even for a man like him whom the whole world believed was dead—-
There were still things he had to do.
Royal balls that he had to attend.
And battles that he had to fight, with his own bare hands if need be.
GOLDEN LIGHT SPILLED from crystal chandeliers, casting a soft, luxurious glow that belied the room’s deadly purpose. One-meter-thick titanium walls encased shelves stocked with the newest and deadliest weapons while bespoke combat gear gleamed behind glass-door closets. It was a place where elegance met lethality, but it was also a room that only those able to withstand the triple threats of power, peril, and pressure were able to enter.
The fifty-something retired major nearly smiled as Giancarlo Marchetti entered the changing room in a tuxedo and emerged less than a minute later, still dressed to kill—but this time, literally.
It reminded him of vigilante superheroes, those who shed their daytime personas in a flash to become something darker, more violent.
Bruce to Batman? Only if Giancarlo was a womanizer, which he never was.
Oliver Queen to Arrow? Possibly, but for this Giancarlo would have to be a womanizer still.
Clark Kent to Superman? Only someone terribly foolish would assume Giancarlo's soft-spoken ways also meant he was mild-mannered...and an idiot, Naaman certainly was not.
Naaman tried to think of other comparisons, but he realized in the end that it was the good people of Boston, whose city Giancarlo's famiglia still ruled, that put it best.
Giancarlo Marchetti was the mafia's modern-day white knight, and even in the darkest of times, his honor would never be sacrificed on the altar of necessity, regardless of the cost.
The door to the armory slid open, and Naaman immediately bowed as Sheikh Nassif Al-Mansouri strode in. The sheikh was the creative and business force behind Insihaam, a billion-dollar atelier that clothed the world’s elite in wearable art. To the public, he was a tyrant and a genius, his sharp tongue leaving models and clients in tears. But few knew of his secret collaboration with the royal army of Kivr—or his decades-long friendship with the former heir of New England’s most powerful famiglia.
"You’ve done it again, Giancarlo," Nassif drawled. "Caused a stir at the royal ball even without showing your face...or uttering a single word."
Giancarlo only shrugged. He had attended the ball to show his gratitude to the royal family. It was because of them he was able to hide in plain sight, and in return, he had been more than willing to lend both his skills and resources in fighting their shared enemies. "I wasn’t being deliberately mysterious."
"And that," Nassif said with a cynical smile, "is exactly why people find you so intriguing."
Giancarlo grunted, his attention fixed on the array of combat equipment laid out before him. He needed something destructive yet compact, but at the same time, something that could be easily concealed and cause minimal disturbance.
Nassif raised a brow. "I was under the impression tonight was about the mysterious Seijcut."
"It is."
"And yet you’re only considering weapons for disarming your enemy?"
"My curiosity has gotten the better of me," Giancarlo admitted with a shrug. "I want to know why this person placed a bounty on my head—"
"Even though the world thinks you’re dead?"
A humorless smile touched Giancarlo’s lips. "Doesn’t that make you curious too?"
"It depends. You have yet to tell me who helped arrange this meeting."
"We both know there’s no need. Nothing happens in this kingdom without you or your brothers knowing."
"Then the reports are true? You’re working with the informant caught at the border last week?"
"To call it a working relationship would be generous."
"Ah." Nassif’s emerald-green eyes glittered. "Were the usual methods applied to ensure his cooperation?"
"Your men were effectively persuasive."
"I assume the same methods convinced him to set up this meeting?"