Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Someone whistles behind us. I turn to see Rodion.
“You really think you can tame that one? She’ll slit your throat before she spreads her legs.”
And just like that, my obsession becomes personal. It’s not just about revenge.
I will own her.
After I beat the shit out of Rodion.
Chapter 2
ANISSA
I slick my long brown hair, the color du jour, over my shoulder and give myself a small chin lift.
It’s hard to find a decent mirror in these tiny Irish pubs. I miss Moscow. My family in Russia takes their appearances a lot more seriously, and full-length mirrors are everywhere. At least in my apartment here in Dublin—the tiny flat I’m renting because they asked no questions and I could pay in cash—I have my makeup. Here, I’ll make do with what I have.
I swipe on some pink gloss and run my fingers through my long hair. Blonde is my natural color, but disguises are my specialty.
Today, I’m in sleek, comfortable clothes—nothing too restrictive. I always need to be ready to run. The black spandex fabric stretches tight across my ample ass, the tiny tank clinging, an oversized white sweater falling off one shoulder. I have on tiny black flats, the expensive kind that fold into your luggage and let you run if you need to. Gold jewelry finishes the ensemble.
I glance at the time on today’s burner phone.
Oh, Cillian O’Rourke, you’re five minutes late. That will cost you.
I walk to the tiny booth in the back and quickly double-check all the exits. Behind me, an orange exit sign flashes, and I’ve already confirmed it leads to an alleyway.
“Sorry I’m late, lass,” O’Rourke says, but the expression on his face tells me he isn’t sorry at all. Spoiled prick. Cillian is one of the youngest of the McCarthy clan—a cousin or a brother, I can’t keep track. There are too damn many of them. His head is shaved, with Irish mob ink running down the side of his neck and across his shoulders. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, he can’t hide his bulk.
His gaze skims over me, lingering. I wonder if I imagine that flicker in his eyes. Not business or courtesy, but something I can’t quite identify.
I’m lonely, though. And for one sliver of a moment—just enough to pull at my heartstrings but not long enough to embarrass me—I wish I were a more permanent fixture in the Irish Mafia. I’m told the McCarthy men are brutal, vicious, old-fashioned, and heavy-handed… but they’re loyal. Filthy rich. Protective. And sexy as sin.
But I’m not their type. I only work for them. I’m a hired contractor and not even paid that well because our deal is simple—they get my excellent forgery skills in exchange for their protection.
Some days, the ability to disappear isn’t the superpower it seems. Cillian never asked for more than my work, but I wanted more. Power. Protection. Maybe something like devotion. But if any of them were interested in me, he would’ve made a move a long, long time ago.
“What do you need, lad?” I ask, flipping open the tiniest laptop known to man—barely bigger than a tablet.
With an eye roll at my mockery of his brogue, he shoves a piece of paper over, the details scratched down in ink. In the digital age, we’ve found that paper trails are sometimes easiest. I’ll literally burn it after I’m done. I take a look at the specs and nod.
“Doable. I can have this for you in twenty-four hours.”
Predictably, he frowns, his full lips pulling down at the edges as he leans forward, his eyes boring into mine.
“I don’t have twenty-four hours, luv.”
I blow out a breath, roll my eyes, and shake my head. Of course he doesn’t, but it’s part of my bargaining power.
His expression’s pinched, his jaw tight. He hates having to ask, hates not being the one calling the shots. Ah, well, sucks to be him.
“Buy me a Guinness, and I can do it in four. You’ll have to find me a pizza too.”
It’s always the same. They never have time, never have patience. Everything I do for them needs to be done yesterday.
But they do keep up their end of our deal, so I keep mine. I’ve been under the protection of the McCarthy Clan since I betrayed the Kopolov Bratva and ran for my life.
I pull up a browser and begin working. He takes his leave after securing me a Guinness and a shitty excuse for a pizza, checking in every hour to see how it’s going. If he wasn’t one of the scariest assholes I’d ever met, which comes in handy for a girl like me, I wouldn’t want anything to do with the bastard. But being in the pocket of the Irish Mafia is my ticket to safety.
For now. I mean, a girl has aspirations.