Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I know her game, and her biggest mistake is thinking my compassion is weakness.
I’m not weak. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.
Ryder.
I take a breath, my face burning as I watch Charlie walk her inside the clubhouse, a trail of old ladies behind them.
“Had to be done.” Doug stands next to me, and I blink at him, then up at the helicopter as I try to calm myself. I despise confrontation. When I look over at the pool, all the women and men are getting out fast.
“Christ.” I hear Doug, but I’m focused on all the chaos surrounding us. People seem to know what’s happening.
“Ryder?” I take a step toward him as people run past me, blocking my path. Once again, I look up at the helicopter.
“What’s happening?” I call out. My hair blows in my face, and I think I hear sirens.
“Let’s go, Julianna.” Doug says, grabbing my hand and trying to move me toward the house. I shake off his grasp—I’m not leaving.
Sirens fill the air now, replacing the music and wild frenzy that’s spinning around me. A fleet of black sedans with dark windows and men in suits infiltrate the back area.
As I stare in shock, these interlopers drive onto the lawn, horns blaring, barely missing people as they run past them. Their red lights swirl around like a red strobe light. My cup slips from my numb fingers, the liquid spilling on my shoes.
Motorcycles rev to life; voices fade. In the midst of it all, Ryder walks toward me, his eyes locked on mine, though the suits try to stop him. They say something, but still he moves forward, like a force that can’t be contained by a mere mortal.
I take a step. He stops, reaching out to touch me. But arms push him back and he doesn’t resist when they cuff him.
His eyes stay locked on mine.
I don’t blink.
I don’t breathe.
All I hear is…
“Leonardo DeLucca, you’re under arrest…”
RYDER
Present
Los Angeles, CA
“We have no statement.” Jett Powers holds up his hand at the horde of press people waiting outside the courthouse.
Ignoring them, I squint at the blistering sun while we make our exit.
“Leo? Are you part of the one-percenter motorcycle club, the Disciples?”
“Mr. DeLucca, did you kill those men? Was it self-defense?” The parasites keep screaming questions at me, but I walk straight to the large black Lincoln waiting for us. It took forty-eight hours for Jett to convince the judge that I was a war hero, and to let me out on bail for a million dollars.
A man dressed like the fucking Feds steps out of the Lincoln and opens the door for me. As I slide in, my jaw tightens and I slam the door in the reporters’ faces.
“Fuck,” I grumble. I’m filthy, the stink of jail and cigarettes my only friend. I didn’t even get to shower because they held me in a separate chamber while the Feds tried to make me turn rat, or at least incriminate myself.
Fucking pieces of shit. Stupid fucking entitled dicks that hide behind a badge thinking they’re smarter than you.
The other door slams shut, and Jett Powers sinks into the leather bucket seat next to me. He nods to the driver, giving him the go-ahead to get moving.
“Okay. How you holding up?” He looks over at me, pulling out his phone. “I tried to get you out earlier, but the judge is getting serious pressure. He also had to make it look somewhat convincing.” Snorting, he stares down at his phone and types. “Which is fine. I own that fucking judge.” He looks up and smiles as the driver honks again, and I can’t decide if I like Jett or want to punch his pretty boy face.
“So all you did was confuse and frustrate the Feds. Which is exactly what we wanted. Unfortunately, the prosecution was able to move up your case. The judge had to give them something—with this much attention on us, you shouldn’t be out on bail. So now, we’ll be going to trial in two months unless the witness has a change of heart.”
I look out the window, and it’s like any other sunny day in Southern California. Except for me—I have to go kill a woman.
“Do you have a cigarette? I smoked my last one earlier.”
“No, I don’t smoke,” he responds. “Where are we dropping you?” Again, I look out the window as we pull off the 405 freeway.
“The clubhouse.” I rub my head. I’ve only been locked up for two days, but it feels like I’ve been gone for weeks.
“You talk to Blade?”
“Yes. He is very happy you’re out. Apparently, they missed you.”
I arch a brow at the sarcasm in his voice.
“Do I need to go over this whole witness thing again? A couple of months to prepare for a triple-murder trial is absurd.”