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I am a Killer. A
Rapist. A Monster.
I know only
pain and survival.
That is
until the Cappo's sister walked into my life.
And changed
everything.
She's a
light who makes my darkness darker, her smile makes
my heart
turn to ice, and I can't escape the fear her seductive looks
instill--knowing
it's only a matter of time before I fail--again, and take her
for
myself.
This is the
story of my redemption.
But it's not
pretty...I died, and now I'm alive, but not
living,
breathing but not surviving. I am Phoenix De Lange, son to a murdered
mob boss,
estranged brother, horrible friend, monster in the making, newest
leader to
one of the most powerful families in the Cosa
Nostra.
And I will
have my vengeance.
Or die
trying.
I am Phoenix
De Lange.
Death is all
I know.
Until she
offers me a piece of life--I can't resist
taking.
Once we were
on the road, Phoenix chose the correct music for our drive. I say correct
because, according to him, one didn't start the day listening to hip-hop or
anything remotely fun. No. Mr. Rogers had me listening to classical
music.
Classical.
Mozart, to
be exact.
Not that I
wasn't a fan of the arts, but really? It just seemed so against what you would
expect from him. He was the bad boy personified; like, if you put his name in
the dictionary, right next to it would be "And mothers warned their
daughters to stay away, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and that
heart wants that body… bad."
He was all
lean muscle and tight abs.
And I could
have sworn he had a dimple, but I'd never actually seen it. Phoenix's dimple
was like Bigfoot; I'd seen glimpses in pictures and via rumors, but I had never
actually seen it for myself.
One
day.
One day I'd
catch it and take a mental picture or five. Maybe ten. Needless to say, I knew
that if I had one of his smiles, it would be a magical thing.
His hands
gripped the steering wheel so hard I had a brief moment of panic thinking he
was actually going to rip the thing from the dash and have a breakdown. Sad
part? I half-expected it. He wasn't acting normal… well, he was always moody,
but this morning he seemed downright suicidal.
"So…"
I tried to zone out the instruments assaulting my sanity. "You went to
Eagle Elite, right?"
He was quiet
for a minute then gave a swift nod.
"Wow,
don't talk so fast. I almost didn't get all that."
And
crickets. Again.
I cleared my
throat. "You graduate?"
"Sort
of."
"How do
you sort of graduate?"
"Did
you bring lunch money?" He asked in a tight voice.
I gaped.
"Did you just ask me if I brought lunch money?"
He
shrugged.
"You're
driving me to school, forcing Mozart on my poor sensitive morning ears, and
just asked me if I had money for milk."
"I'm
concerned about you eating. Sue me."
"Pretty
sure the Nicolasi boss can afford to spare me a few dollars for a sandwich and
a can of pop."
"No
pop."
"Who
died and made you my grandpa? Seriously. I want to know so I can steal your gun
and point it at them."
"Nobody
touches my gun."
"Which
one?" I smirked, hoping he'd find the humor in my sexual innuendo, but who
was I kidding? It was Phoenix. He simply grunted, rolled his eyes, and kept
driving.
In a moment
of pure rebellion, I undid the first two buttons of my white, collared shirt.
"What
the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice calm, his eyes
still on the road.
"Wow,
you really are like a parent. You can see me even when you aren't
looking."
"Button
that shit to your chin before I pull this car over."
"Put on
Jay-Z, and we'll talk."
More
cursing.
I undid
another button.
"Son of
a bitch, you're annoying."
"Is
this our first lovers' spat?"
"Were
there drugs in your toast?" He finally glanced at me, his blue eyes chilling
me to the bone. "Be serious. I don't want to get called into the dean's
office because you're high."
"Do I
look like I'm on drugs?"
"Is
this a trick question?"
Elite:
Elect:
Entice:
Elicit:
BANG
BANG:
ENFORCE:
Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall
Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary
romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks
and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing journey at www.rachelvandykenauthor.com
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