Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“But now,” Luca said, “now we research the fuck out of this bastard. He has to pay for this.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Despite everything else that had gone down, it was the woman with the cuff on her wrist that flashed back into the forefront of my mind.
Yeah.
He had a fuck of a lot to pay for.
And I secretly hoped I would be the one to make him do it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Claire
I didn’t sleep.
I couldn’t.
There was a palpable tension in the mansion that night, men coming and going, everyone tense, faces tight, eyes… fearful.
Fearful of what?
Of who?
Warren, because he was a miserable fuck when he had a sniffle, let alone a bullet wound?
Or the consequences of his actions back at the docks?
Of the people they’d ambushed that, I prayed, made it out alive.
Especially the one with the kind eyes.
The one who wanted to save me before he even warned his men.
Aurelio Grassi.
Grassi.
Italian.
And, given this world Warren operated in, that meant that this man was a criminal as well.
And, also in this underground world full of criminals, men with Italian last names typically meant one thing.
The mafia.
Had Warren really gotten cocky enough to think he could take on the mob?
I mean, I knew the answer was a resounding Yes before the question finished forming in my mind.
Because, yes, Warren was always cocky enough to think he had the upper hand. His ego refused to acknowledge that there was some other organization that was as good as his, with as ruthless and cunning a leader as he was.
Admittedly, though, I did sort of hope that the Grassi organization, or whatever they might be called, wasn’t led by such a lunatic.
I mean, it couldn’t be, right? With a man ready to save a strange woman handcuffed in a car?
I mean, Warren’s men walked by me day in and day out, knowing Judah and I were prisoners here, and not giving a shit about us or our situation.
Bad leaders created bad men, it seemed.
It went to say, then, that good leaders fostered good men, right?
I couldn’t say why I cared so much that this Aurelio Grassi guy was a good man.
I guess you could chalk it up to two long years of not seeing one, without knowing one. Long enough to almost forget such a thing existed.
I knew one thing for sure as I looked down at Judah as he started to stir when the sun began to filter into the room. The future would have a good man. I would do everything in my power to shape Judah into one.
I waited for him to wake himself fully up, turning to look out of the windows.
You might be thinking here: Hey, there are windows in the room! Just sneak out one of them.
I wish it was that easy.
I learned the day after Warren had dragged me and Judah into this house. Because, like any person, a window—especially oversized windows on the ground floor—sure looked a hell of a lot like freedom.
What I hadn’t realized as I clutched my newborn to my heavy chest, aching in ways I never could have imagined before delivery as I climbed out of the window, was that there was a silent alarm on the windows.
I got all of twenty feet down the driveway before I was seized by arms, before my son was pulled away from me, handed to a maid, and I was dragged back to Warren’s room.
Where he showed me what happened when I tried to run away. Tried to take his son from him.
I truly believe the only thing that kept him from killing me that night was the way my milk started to soak through my shirt because Judah was overdue for a feeding.
And, somewhere in Warren’s sick, dead heart, was the belief that his son deserved to have everything done ‘just right’ to give him the best chance in life.
That meant a mother’s milk.
It meant a strict diet for said mother to be on, so I provided the best nutrients possible.
It meant that I got to have my son in my arms every night.
And, as Judah got older, got conscious of things like cuts and bruises, it meant he stopped leaving marks on me.
But, as it turned out, Warren Graves didn’t need to enact physical violence on me to still keep absolute control over me.
Because he controlled my son.
I watched as the weekly grocery delivery van pulled up the driveway, backing up toward the kitchen, before I forced my gaze away.
“Hey, buddy,” I said as I turned to find Judah standing at his crib bars, smiling at me.
I got him dressed for his day before settling him on my hip, and heading into the kitchen.
“What do you want for breakfast?” I asked him as we walked into the all-white kitchen. White tile floors, white tile backsplash, white cabinets, white quartz countertops. The only spot of color were the stainless steel appliances. If you could even count that. “How about some eggs with—“ I started, then heard a chorus of male voices moving through the house.