Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“We should get back,” Flint says, glancing at his watch. “It’s been almost two hours.”
Damiano nods. “I’ll handle the tools. Say I’ve been doing early morning maintenance.”
“And what about me?” Flint asks. “How do I explain being here?”
A flash of irritation crosses Damiano’s face. “Figure it out. You always do.”
“Fuck you,” Flint says, but there’s less heat in it than before.
“Seriously?” I cut in, exasperated. “Can you two go five minutes without this?”
They both look at me, then at each other, and something shifts in the air between them.
“He came to see me,” I say, the solution suddenly obvious. “We met at my party; he wanted to check how I was feeling after my migraine. You let him in, Damiano, because you know I’ve been lonely and could use a friend.”
Damiano raises an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “That works.”
“Nice,” Flint agrees. “Simple, plausible.”
“And based in truth,” I add. “I could use a friend. Or two.”
Something passes between us then, some unspoken acknowledgment that we’re in this together now, whether we like it or not. Three strangers bound by blood and secrets.
“Let’s go,” Damiano says, gathering the tools. “And remember… act normal.”
As we walk away from the grave, I can’t help looking back one last time. There’s nothing to see now. Just freshly turned earth that will soon sprout new life. In a few weeks, no one will know what lies beneath the green growth.
No one except us three.
Flint falls into step beside me, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine. Damiano walks slightly ahead, leading us through the maze with the confidence of someone who knows every turn by heart. I find myself studying them both—the tension in Damiano’s shoulders, the careful distance Flint maintains, the weird energy between them despite how much they claim to hate each other.
And somehow, I’m being drawn into their gravity. Both of them so different, yet equally magnetic in their own ways. Damiano with his quiet intensity and hidden depths. Flint with his sharp edges and unexpected kindness.
“You okay?” Flint asks quietly, having noticed my scrutiny.
“No,” I answer, “but I will be.”
He nods, accepting this. “We’ve got your back. Both of us.”
I glance ahead at Damiano, who’s paused to wait for us at the next turn. His eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable, but there’s a steadiness in his gaze that feels like a promise.
“I know,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I believe it.
Chapter 11
Flint
Working a shift at The Vault after burying a body is a special kind of fucked up.
My hands are raw from digging, muscles aching in places I forgot existed, but here I am polishing glasses like it’s just another night, like I didn’t help bury a body this morning.
The Vault’s still quiet. It’s only 8 PM, too early for the real action, with only a handful of the usual suspects nursing overpriced drinks at the bar—rich assholes in designer clothes pretending they’re edgy because they hang out in a converted bank that hosts kink parties on weekends. Pathetic.
Mari leans against the bar next to me, her blue hair catching the light. “You look like shit,” she says cheerfully. “Wild night with the gardener?”
I nearly drop the glass I’m polishing. “What?”
“Oh, come on. The whole island knows you two hook up every few months when you get drunk enough to forget why you hate each other.” She nudges my shoulder. “And you definitely left the Waters party together last night.”
Fuck. “We didn’t leave together.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” She grins, clearly not believing me. “But maybe wash the dirt from under your fingernails next time you want to be convincing.”
I glance down. She’s right. Despite me scrubbing my hands raw in the shower, I still have dirt embedded around my cuticles and under my nails.
Grave dirt.
I shove my hands into my pockets.
“I was helping him with something this morning,” I mutter. “Landscaping shit.”
“Uh-huh.” Mari smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
I’m saved from answering by the front door swinging open. The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
Viktor Bastian fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from outside—six-feet-four of pure muscle and bad attitude, dressed all in black with a security earpiece permanently attached to his head. His face is set in stone, but there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Worry.
Shit.
Mari whispers, “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of hell today.”
“Go check inventory,” I tell her, staying casual. “I’ll deal with this.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Smart girl.
Viktor makes a beeline for the bar, ignoring the other patrons who instinctively move out of his way. The guy has that effect on people. Even the stupid rich think twice about messing with him.
“Bishop,” he says in that gravelly voice that’s sent more than a few troublemakers running. “We need to talk.”