Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
What the hell was going on here?
Who was Renzo?
Why did Saff’s employees have guns?
Who was Cormac Gallagher?
“No, I got a call from one of Elian’s cousins,” Renzo said.
“Elian’s cousin who?” I asked.
Renzo’s gaze moved in my direction.
But, no.
He wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking behind me.
It was right then that I heard the click of heels.
My stomach tightened.
Because I knew that sound. I knew that walk.
I’d been hearing it daily for years.
I half-turned to find Teresa walking up beside me.
“Hey, Renzo,” she called, lifting a hand to wave at the man on the stage with Saff and Alen.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I asked, head spinning.
“Yeah,” Renzo said, looking at me, then giving Saff a hard look. “That’s a good fucking question.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Saff
I knew I’d fucked up five feet inside the door of the club.
I heard the shuffle of feet on the floor just a second before two arms grabbed me. One closed over my mouth. The other clamped hard around my midsection, crushing hard enough to steal my breath as he lifted me up off my feet.
I was adept at fighting men who were larger than me. Since just about every man was bigger than me.
But this body behind me was a tank.
He was easily twice my width, with an arm that was about as big as one of my thighs.
With my arms pinned against my body, I couldn’t use the damn knife that was cutting into my palm to defend myself.
I tried flailing my legs, kicking in the air, trying to throw him off balance.
But it was like trying to move a brick wall.
“Who do we have here?” he asked in my ear as he walked inward, away from the door.
It seemed to take no effort at all for him to carry me along with him.
My gaze scanned around the room, noting all the tools that Gav and his crew had left around: hammers, mallets, screwdrivers. All great weapons if I could just break away and get to them.
I was held just a little too low to be able to use my head to whack his nose or chin. I couldn’t get my leg up high enough to kick him in the balls.
That left me with one weapon I could utilize.
I squirmed and wiggled until I got just low enough to lean down and sink my teeth into the guy’s arm.
“Fuck!” he roared, dropping me suddenly.
I slammed down on my knees, pain ricocheting up my thighs and hips. But there was no time to let myself feel it.
I scrambled up, my eye on one of the hammers.
I had my knife tucked in my palm, but when it came to fighting off a much bigger target, blunt was going to trump sharp every time. Especially when it was just a tiny little knife. I was more likely to break off the blade in this meaty guy’s arm than actually be useful.
I was smaller, scrappy, and quick.
But each two of my steps was only one of his.
He grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking back so hard that I saw white.
“Who are you?” he asked, dragging me backward by my hair.
“Fuck you.”
“How do you know Soren?”
Soren.
Did this guy know Soren?
If so, how?
What was my move here?
Did I lie?
Stall?
But stall for what? No one was coming.
If what he wanted was information, at least I could use that to try to catch him off-guard enough to get free again, to get to a weapon, or even just get away.
I was in my neighborhood.
Once I got on the street, I could get away. Or find someone belonging to one of the crew to help me.
“How do you know Soren?” the man snapped again, yanking my hair harder.
I exhaled hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out in pain.
“I’m working with him.”
“Working with him how?” he asked, loosening his hold on my hair.
He wanted the information more than he wanted to hurt me.
I could work with that.
“This is my place.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he roared. “This is Soren’s club.”
“It’s our club.”
There was a pause then before he tugged my hair, forcing me to turn to face him.
“You’re his partner?”
“Silent. Yes.”
“Hmm,” he said, watching me with unnervingly keen hazel eyes.
Then, without giving me a single clue what he was going to do, he cocked back and punched me in the face.
I felt consciousness wobble as the copper taste slid into my mouth from my nose.
By the time I fought back the urge to pass out, the man had already dragged me over toward the tools, yanked my arms behind my back, and wrapped my wrists in duct tape.
Great.
That was just great.
My heartbeat hammered in my chest as the man slapped tape over my mouth, then grabbed my arm and dragged me across the club and onto the stage.
Only then did he reach for his phone.