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)
Deep down, I knew I’d let him.
Deep down, I knew I turned into a very different person where Tate was concerned. He seemed to pry the darkest, most nefarious parts of me out into the light.
And I loved it. All of it. Even the toxicity.
Every second that passed on our way to Cal and Row’s Fifth Avenue building had the knot in my stomach twist harder until it pressed against my sternum.
We stopped outside their building, and that was when I noticed Tate had his phone angled toward his window with the camera app on, facing him.
“Would you like me to call Cal and tell her—”
“We’ll go upstairs,” he cut into my words.
I squinted. “Why?”
“We’re being followed.”
I didn’t have to ask by whom. I ducked my head, trying to follow his line of vision, but I didn’t have a good angle.
“And you want us to go upstairs, where we might endanger our friends? Their daughter?” I asked incredulously.
“There are rules to abide by in the underworld. Certain codes.” He clasped my elbow. His eyes, cold and empty, dug into my flesh like a metal knife. “They won’t hurt an innocent family. The Casablancas will protect us, but we won’t endanger them.”
He got out of the limo first, shielding me with his body as we slipped into the building. We took the stairs up, him following closely behind me, glancing down every few seconds.
Cold sweat settled over my forehead. I stumbled over the fabric of my dress, reaching to the wall of the darkened corridor. Finally, we reached their door. Tate rapped on it three times.
Row opened, surprise pleating his forehead. “What’s up? Thought we’re going to meet downst—”
Tate shoved past him, tugging me to his side. He strode over to the living room window.
I winced apologetically. “Sorry. We’re being followed by Irish mobsters.”
“Oookay, I’m gonna need a little more context than that.” Row double locked the door and pulled on the latch. “Which one of us is calling the cops?”
“No one. I’ve got it handled,” Tate said calmly. “They were bound to try tonight. Enzo and his soldiers are off for the engagement party.”
“You brought mobsters to my doorstep?” Row blinked. “While my daughter and wife are in the other room?” He looked ready to kill my husband. I was almost certain I was going to help him if he tried.
“They won’t come in here. You and your family are under Ferrante protection. You’re innocent. They’re not that dumb.”
“Maybe, but you are.” Row looked around us, sticking a hand into his tousled jet-black hair and messing it further. “Jesus fucking Christ, Tate. I mean, your ass is more disposable than a soiled diaper, but what about Gia?”
“Hi guys! Thanks for giving us a ride.” Cal appeared from the hallway, heels clicking as she put an earring on. “Serafina’s nanny just arrived, but we still need to go through her evening routine together.”
Tate ignored her, hiking over to the kitchen and returning to the window with a butcher block. “Is this the eight-pound block you used for that Netflix special?”
“Yeah.” Row rubbed the back of his neck. “Wh—”
Tate tossed it out the window.
“What the fuck?” Row snapped before the sound of a watermelon bursting filled the air. “Holy shit.”
Tate raised two fingers to point at his eyes in an I-see-you gesture. “Don’t. Your building’s in an angle that makes it impossible to see where the object fell from.”
Row, Cal, and I sprinted to the window, peering down. Tate’d knocked down a man waiting at the building’s entrance. The mobster lay on the pavement, unconscious, blood pouring out of his head. Three men talking on the phone dragged him into a nearby truck. There weren’t any pedestrians on the street, but that was hardly any consolation.
“We’re in the middle of Manhattan,” I pointed out. “You do realize that?”
“No security cameras on this side of the block.” He spared me a look. “And I knew they’d fuck off before the police arrive.”
Actually, the police didn’t arrive at all. There was no one to report the incident, I suppose. We waited a few minutes in stunned silence. Cal was shaking and giving Row the incredulous look of a woman who decisively did not want to host a murderer in her apartment.
“D-did you just kill someone?” Cal coughed out finally.
“No. But he’ll need a sabbatical to take care of that head injury,” Tate replied.
“It sounded like his head exploded,” Cal insisted.
“He moved,” Row reassured his wife. “I saw it. I don’t think he’s dead.” But I could see on his face he didn’t entirely believe his own words.
“Stop looking so scandalized.” Tate slanted his eyes in Cal’s direction. “He tried to kill me.”
Cal placed a trembling hand over her heart, trying to regulate her breathing. “This is…this is not okay.” She was hyperventilating. “You’re not okay, Tate.”