Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
It had been eight hours since I last went through my rituals.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Going a few hours without solving mathematical problems, without sanitizing, without reading my favorite paragraphs, made me feel suffocated and out of control.
I cracked open a thick abstract algebra book. I grabbed a pen and started solving equations.
Math soothed me. It turned off all the other thoughts swirling in my head. Usually, I concluded every waking hour of my day with at least one or two pages of equations. But that hadn’t been possible today.
When I didn’t have my routine, I wasn’t thinking straight. I made mistakes.
Which was how I ended up engaged to my fucking PA.
I didn’t want to marry Gia. I wanted to ruin her.
Now I could do both. After all, I did need a successor. Someone to inherit this empire of ruins.
I couldn’t think of a better candidate than my PA.
Beautiful. Intelligent. Capable.
Insufferable.
But my reason for loathing her was entirely independent from who she was as a person. I was a pragmatic man. I could make the distinction.
Yes, she’d do. I’d simply have to get rid of her once she stopped being useful to me. Just like the others.
I’d keep the children. Get full custody.
I was too rich to contemplate any other outcome.
I finished one page. Then another. My handwriting was neat, my pen steady. The tension slowly rolled off my shoulders. As I solved math problems, my thoughts unfurled.
Why did I do that? Why did I ask her to marry me? I could’ve just fucked her.
But no. That wouldn’t be enough.
I didn’t want one night with her. I wanted all her nights. Her days too.
And I wanted to stop competing for her time with random fuckboys from dating apps.
I wanted to finally consume her in the same way she consumed me. To drag her with me to the dark rabbit hole that was my existence. Make her pay for what she did all those years ago.
I could worship her body and disparage her soul. I would finally treat her as she deserved to be treated—another warm, willing pussy that would do anything to get my last name and access to my wallet.
The wench had always been beautiful, but tonight, she was mesmerizing. And when she solved that math problem…when she put the pen down before her ten seconds were up…
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
My cock stiffened in my pants.
A tree that grows crooked can never be straightened, Andrin used to say.
He was right, of course.
Choosing a wife because of her math skills was a level of unhinged many assholes could only aspire to.
Now only the pesky detail of securing her mother a place in that experimental treatment facility.
“Siri, call Achilles Ferrante,” I barked.
Achilles was the Camorra’s underboss and the guy who got shit done.
Siri cooed her confirmation, and the line began ringing.
“It’s five in the fucking morning,” Achilles greeted, sounding completely awake. “Someone better be dead.”
“I hadn’t realized mobsters have office hours.”
“Careful.” I heard him lighting a cigarette. “Or you’ll wake up one day with that smart mouth of yours full of explosives.”
“I need you to pull some strings at Northeastern General Hospital. They have a special dementia program I want to get someone into. Highly curated.”
“I thought you have no family.”
“It’s for a colleague.”
He bristled. “Meddling in health care is high risk.”
I heard a woman moan. In Achilles’s case, I was sure he was murdering, not pleasuring her.
“It requires a lot of palm greasing, security breaching, and possible unfortunate accidents. What’s the budget on this project?”
“Infinite.”
“Good. We have special god complex fees for people who want to break Title 18, Section 1347 codes.”
Fortunately, all the Ferrante men had law degrees and a few working brain cells between their ears.
Working with mobsters who learned all the rules before they broke them was convenient. They weren’t low-grade criminals but the crème de la crème of corruption. The men who crowned politicians and ran every street and corner of this city.
“Get started,” I ordered.
“A colleague, ah?” Achilles sounded slightly repulsed. “Don’t tell me you are growing a conscience?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s a golden pussy and blackmail involved.”
He laughed under his breath. “Good. Good. I’d hate to let you go.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t work with romantics. They’re prone to doing stupid shit.”
“Make it happen before Tuesday.” I killed the call.
I was going to put Gia’s mother in that facility if I had to murder someone myself.
“It’s Tuesday.” I barged into the Ferrantes’ basement two days later.
Achilles was in the middle of blowing out someone’s kneecap with a golf club. That someone had a burlap sack over their head and was tied to a chair.
Luca, Achilles’s oldest brother and the Camorra’s consigliere, leaned against a table in the darkened room, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up his elbows.
He stared at me unflinchingly, like people barging into their torture dungeon demanding shit was a daily occurrence.