Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 54283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
I lift my hand to rap my fingers against his office door, only for one of Sullivan's men to step forward, his expression level as he clears his throat. "Everyone who goes in there gets patted down."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I growl, rolling my eyes. Do they really expect me to take him out by my damn self in a club full of his people? Either they think I'm seriously the fucking devil…or an idiot. I turn, lifting the sides of my suit coat. "Do I look like I'm armed?"
"Have to check," he grunts, shrugging.
I bite my tongue, jerking my head for him to hurry it the fuck up. Naturally, he takes his sweet time, patting me down like he expects to find an entire arsenal hidden beneath my shirt.
I mutter a curse when his hand crawls all over my dick.
"That's my cock," I grit out.
He sweeps lower, grabbing another handful of it.
"Still my motherfucking cock," I snap, one brow arched. "Satisfied now, or do you want to grab the final four inches of it too?"
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, stepping back with a disgruntled look on his face. As if I had my hands all over his cock. "He's unarmed."
I shoot him a cold look, pinning the other two with it as well. They fidget under the weight of it, uncomfortable, unsettled.
Good. They should be.
"I'm not your fucking enemy," I growl before turning to rap on Sullivan's door. I don't bother to wait for an answer before I step inside his office, letting the door slam closed behind me.
His office is as predictable as the man himself. Expensive scotch bottles line shelves behind his imposing desk, the Irish flag stretched across one wall. Awards hang on the other three walls, mingling between photos of his family and those he's taken with celebrities and whoever the fuck else this man thinks will lend him a little legitimacy.
It's almost laughable how zealously he's curated that image. He's every bit as monstrous as I am, every bit the criminal. He loves the power. He loves the game. But he chases legitimacy like it he thinks catching it, surrounding himself with it, will make him anything other than what he is.
He looks up at me, an infuriating mix of anger, curiosity, and cold amusement in eyes too goddamn much like his daughter's. The hint of triumph glinting in their depths, as if he thinks I'm here like some beaten dog, makes me homicidal.
Cristo. I want to flip that desk and wrap my hand around his throat, remind him exactly who the fuck I am. But I'm not here for that. I'm here for her. I'm here…to make new rules. To be something—to forge something different.
I told her to choose peace the day we met, but it isn't hers to choose. It never was. If I want peace in her life, it's up to me and this motherfucker right here to choose it for her.
I'm willing to give her that. Is he?
"Leyva." He leans back in his leather chair, smirking. "Looking for something?"
My jaw clenches, anger coursing through me. The prick thinks I'm here to beg for Josef's body back. He's waving it in my face like a flag in front of a bull, hoping I charge at the bait.
"I'm not here for Josef's body, Sullivan. We both know you aren't giving it up so he can be buried," I mutter. "Decency is only in your nature when people like those in the photos on your walls are watching."
His smirk slips at the insult. "Then why are you here? I have a club to run."
"I'm here about your daughter."
Surprise flares in his eyes, followed by steely anger. He flattens his palms against the top of his desk, his body stiffening. "What the fuck do you want with my daughter, Nazario?"
"You already know, Sullivan. You knew the truth the minute she came back to you unharmed. You just didn't want to admit it."
"Say it, you fucking prick," he growls.
"What is it you want to hear? That I've been seeing her since the gala?" I ask, shoving my hands into my pockets to hide the way they shake. I've never been a man to show vulnerability, to lay my cards on the table for anyone to see. And baring my fucking soul to a man who'd use it against me in a heartbeat is the epitome of uncomfortable.
But when that man is Brynna's father? The one capable of helping me ensure she's safe? I'll slice my veins open and bleed if that's what I need to do.
"Do you need to hear that I'm in love with her? That she feels the same way?" I grit out. "What do you need to hear to end this fucking war for her sake, Sullivan? Tell me, and you'll hear it. Every goddamn word of it will be true, too."