Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 110334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“You’re in my way.” I rustled, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.
He stared at me blankly.
“Push me away. Fight for what you want, Francesca.”
“I thought that’s what made us enemies.” A vicious smile found my lips. “Because I want to break free from you.”
It was his turn to smirk.
“Wanting and fighting are two different things. One is passive, the other active. Are we enemies, Nemesis?”
“What else can we be?”
“Allies. I’ll scratch your back. You’ll scratch mine.”
“I’m all for not touching you ever again after last night.”
He shrugged. “You might’ve been more believable if you hadn’t grinded on me before I kicked you out of my bedroom. At any rate, you’re welcome to come in. But I won’t be making it easy for you, unless you give me your word Bandini is deleted from your phone and your life.”
I got why he did that. He could have done it himself, but he wanted it to come from me. He didn’t want another battle—he wanted my complete surrender.
“Angelo will always be in my life. We grew up together, and just because you bought me doesn’t mean you own me,” I said evenly even though really, I had no intention of responding to Angelo’s texts. More so since I’d heard that he was going on a second date with the vile Emily.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to show some of your temper and fight me.”
“Can I ask you something?” I rubbed my forehead tiredly.
“Certainly. Whether I’ll answer or not is a completely different story.” His smirk grew more smug and mocking.
“What’s your leverage over my father? He obviously hates your guts, yet he won’t claim me back, even after I told him I’m going to college. That’d put a huge strain on his reputation as people will know that I am going against his wish. It must be quite substantial, then, if he’d rather have me in your bed than have you dish out the goods on him.”
I scanned his face, expecting him to rebuke and belittle me as my father had done earlier that day.
Wolfe surprised me again.
“Whatever I have on him could take away everything he’s worked for, not to mention throw him in jail for the rest of his miserable life. But your father didn’t throw you to the dogs. He trusts me not to hurt you.”
“Is that foolish of him?” I looked up.
Wolfe’s muscular arm flexed under his shirt. A barely visible movement.
“I’m not a monster.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Just tell me why?” I whispered, the air rattling in my lungs. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“That’s two questions. Go to bed.”
“Move out of the way.”
“Accomplishments are so much more rewarding when obstacles are in the way. Fight me, darling.”
I snuck under his arm, ducking into the house and launching for the staircase. He caught me by the waist in one swift movement, pulling me into his arms and plastering me against his strong chest. His knuckles trailed down the length of my spine, and goose bumps burst all over my skin. His lips found my ear, hot and soft in contrast to the harsh man they belonged to, his breath tickling my hair. “Maybe I am the monster. After all, I come out to play at night. But so do you, little one. You’re out in the darkness, too.”
BLOWING UP ARTHUR’S PROPERTY SLASH meth lab—and the coke with it—was just another Tuesday. The work of saints was done through others, and mine had definitely been taken care of.
The next four days were spent bending White’s and Bishop’s arms until they snapped and agreed to assign over five hundred additional cops to be on duty at any given time to protect the streets of Chicago from the mess I’d created. It was going to blow up the bill to the sky, but it wasn’t the state of Illinois that was going to shell out the money. The money was sitting firmly in White’s and Bishop’s pockets.
Money given by my future father-in-law.
Who, by the way, changed his tune from trying to coax his daughter into warming up to me and decided to repay me by throwing hundreds of pounds of trash in parks across Chicago. He couldn’t do much more than that, considering all the juice I had on him. I was a power player. Touching what was mine—even scratching my car—came with a hefty price tag and would award him more unneeded attention from the FBI.
I had the trash picked up by volunteers and thrown into his garden. That was when the phone calls began to pour in. Dozens of them. Like a needy, drunk ex-girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. I didn’t pick up. I was a senator. He was a highly connected mobster. I could marry his daughter, but I wouldn’t listen to what he had to say. My job was to clean the streets he soiled with drugs, guns, and blood.