Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“I have reason to believe…” I trail off when my excuse rings false even to me. “Bianca hasn’t come home from work yet, and we’re going to find her and bring her back.”
If it was just the two of us, he might make an excuse about traffic or overtime. It’s one thing to speak personally, but another to do it in front of the bodyguards.
“You’ve all seen her car,” he says, turning to the men while I send him the information he needs. “The three of you will begin at her office building, then spread out.”
Something else occurs to me, something that makes my stomach churn. “And Romero, I want you to head to another address.” Because I’m starting to believe she may have signed that lease today, after all. She could be there.
She could also be at her father’s house. Should I send him there? Do I dare open that can of worms?
One guy snorts while I’m still digging through contact information. “I didn’t know we’d end up babysitting tonight.”
I raise my eyes, staring daggers at him. Nathan has been with me long enough to know I don’t accept shit like that. “Excuse me? Did you just question an order I’ve given?”
He knows he’s stepped in it—so do his buddies, both of whom place space between themselves and him. Like they don’t want to get caught in the splash zone when I blow his brains out. His face goes gray, and he moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue before choking out an apology. “Sorry, boss. I was only screwing around.”
He gulps audibly when I crack my knuckles, rounding the desk. What’s he going to do? Back away and make himself look like a pussy, or stand his ground and get the shit kicked out of him? Since he stays still, it’s clear he’s made his choice.
“What about this situation makes you think it’s okay to screw around? Since when are my orders treated as a joke?”
All he can do is stammer while his eyes sweep the area like he’s looking for a way out. There isn’t one.
“Come on.” I roll up my sleeves without looking away from him. “Tell me. What was so funny? Who told you to laugh at my orders?”
A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “I… I don’t know. I’m sorry, boss.”
Wrong answer.
His knees buckle when I drive a fist into his midsection, so I haul him up by the collar for a jab to his nose. Cartilage crunches under my fist before blood flows.
“Hey, boss.” Romero wasn’t able to stop me down at the harbor, but this time he won’t let go until I lay off the pathetic sack of shit now bent at the waist, clutching his broken nose.
“Get him out of here before he bleeds all over my floor,” I warn the other two. “Then get the fuck behind the wheel and do what you’re told. You’re bringing her home.”
They waste no time dragging him out while he groans in pain.
I have to turn away from Romero when I catch him staring at me like we’ve never met. It’s that or ask if he would like a little of the same treatment I just dished out. I’m not in the fucking mood for his concern. “Well? What’s stopping you from doing what you’re told?” I demand.
“I’ve never seen you do that before. Beating on one of your own men.”
“Maybe I should do more of it, seeing as how they think it’s okay to make wiseass remarks when I’ve given an order.”
We both look down at the desk when my phone buzzes, and I might as well be jumping on a live grenade. I’m desperate to answer when I find the one name I want to see written in capital letters across the screen. My heart’s fluttering, my stomach’s in knots, and I’ve never felt this relieved.
She isn’t ignoring me.
“Where the fuck are you?” I demand, pushing aside the flare of hope. She needs to learn this will not be tolerated. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you know I’m about to send guys out to look for you?”
At first, I take her silence as guilt, and all it does is stoke the inferno already blazing in my head. “Well?” I bark. I hate Romero is witnessing this. I’m not proud of myself for letting her turn me into this person.
Finally, there’s a soft sniffle on her end. “Can you please come get me?”
The fragile tremor in her voice calms my rage like water drowning a fire. She’s in pain, or scared, or both. “From where?”
“The emergency room.”
“I’m sorry.” She squeezes my hand, groaning, and the sound threatens to break what’s left of my heart. Seeing her like this—the IV in her arm, the bruising and scrapes along the left side of her face, her arm, her leg—is almost worse torture than when I forced myself to stay away from her.