Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74291 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74291 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
The first item on my list is fucking ending Paul Banks. I’ll be doing it either way, but being certain there would be no legal backlash would be great. I don’t need all of the law enforcement agencies in Miami and Federal people looking at me with a fucking target on my head.
I grab the bitch’s cigarettes from her fumbling hands. Taking one out and handing it to her, I keep the pack in my hand, taking the lighter too. Maybe she’s starting to wise up, or maybe she just really wants that cigarette, but I sense the change in her. I have her complete attention now.
“I own Miami. When I say I own it, I mean this shithole you’re living in too. It will look like fucking heaven compared to what I can do to you. You’re a miserable fuck, I get that. You are probably like your fucking son and would rather die than keep drawing breath. What you need to realize is, there’s much worse things than dying, and I can make sure you find that out firsthand.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asks, but I hear the nervousness in her voice; I see her eyes and how they are dilated.
“You like drugs. I have friends use this stuff on their enemies that, with one injection, turns you into a vegetable. When I say that, I mean you will be fully alert, fully awake, but hooked to a machine that feeds you, have diapers on your ass, and not be able to bitch about how miserable you are. Unable to move. It’s bad shit. I’ve never been tempted to deal with it. That is, until I saw a miserable bitch raise a hand to my woman.”
“Ana is—”
“My property. Mine. No one touches what’s mine, least of all you. Your hand, your words, your breath no longer touch my woman. If I hear it does, I promise you, you’ll find out firsthand what living in real hell feels like.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“You think? Ask around. I guarantee people here know who Roman Anthes is, even if you’re too stupid to. You don’t want me as an enemy, woman, but that’s too late for you. Much too late. If Ana comes back, you best be a fucking saint ready to kiss her fucking feet. And believe me lady, I’ll have eyes on you from here on out.”
The bitch wisely doesn’t say another word. I smash her cigarettes up in my hand. The smell of tobacco fills the air around me. I make sure there’s not one motherfucker in the pack that can still be used before letting them fall to her lap, then I walk to the door.
“Don’t try me on this bitch,” I warn her on my way out. “I’ve never had much taste for harming a woman, but after what I’ve just seen, I’d make an exception for you, and I’d fucking enjoy every minute of it.” With that, I toss the lighter across the room, having it land on the floor a few feet from her. Then I leave. Time to deal with Ana next. Thank fuck that will be more enjoyable than the other shit I’ve dealt with today.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ana
I’m walking slowly from the building, keeping my tears at bay and trying to keep from running from the nursing home. I fucking hate dealing with my mother. I hate it. It brings back too many ugly memories, too many things I’ve spent my life trying to hide from. The last thing in the world that I wanted was for Roman to witness my shame.
And my mother is my shame. She always has been. I hate her. I despise her and yet I can never seem to turn my back on her. I force myself to visit her once a month. If I went more than that, I’d probably be one of those people about to jump off a ledge they used to send my unit out on sometimes. Dealing with her makes me feel that desperate. It makes me feel that stupid. How can I still feel any type of responsibility or loyalty towards someone who doesn’t deserve it? Someone who was high my entire childhood, passed out, or in emergency rooms from overdosing? Someone who let drug addicts and johns into the same house she kept a twelve-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy while she worked out her next high?
Roman wasn’t wrong. There’s a reason I sleep with a gun under my pillow. A big reason, and it has nothing to do with being a cop. It has more to do with a frightened little girl and boy hiding in a closet scared the latest monster would be worse than the one before. It has more to do with the last time a fucking asshole thought it was okay to try and rape a sixteen-year-old girl. One man stopped him: Paul Banks. He took me out of the hellhole, set my brother and me in county care, and took an interest in seeing me succeed. I tried to get Allen to follow me, but I think the memories haunted him more. I’m not sure. He turned to the same shit that helped make our life miserable to begin with. There are days I can’t forgive him for that. I’m so lost in my thoughts, I jump when Robert touches my shoulder.