Page 1 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

Chapter 1

London

The first man who ever hurt me was my father.

Some of the scars he left behind have faded, some trigger people to gasp and ask what happened. Some are so fresh that only time will tell the permanent mark that will remain once the wounds close, and the skin shifts from a raised purple to soft pink. But some, some of them will haunt me long after he's been buried six feet under.

Ricardo Gardella was a vicious man, and he spared no one from his wrath. Not his so-called friends, not the mother of his child, not even his own flesh and blood.

He bought and sold people with no regard for their autonomy. He used money as a way to excuse his actions, his only motive was his endless greed. I was simply a part of the plan, a pawn in his twisted game that only he held the rule book for.

I used to think death would be my escape from his lifelong torment but even after he's taken his last breath, he plagues me still.

I was lucky, really, that my father was hated so badly no one wanted to do business with him.

That was, until he found someone as vile as he was to strike a deal for my hand in marriage.

Joe Vito.

A man more untouchable than my father supposedly was.

And so, I cling to my cast-covered arm and hobble off the final bus, putting over three thousand miles between me and the fate I never agreed to.

Rain pelts my face and I wince, squinting my eyes and desperately searching for cover. I shuffle my feet behind the people who exited before me and follow them over to seek refuge under an awning. Sniffling, I swallow harshly and glance around. A sign for Lincoln Square comes into my line of sight and relief washes over me. I'm close. I'm so fucking close.

It's been seven days, nine buses, and two pathetic truck-stop showers since I left that forsaken town in California. I'm blocks away from my final destination and despite having no idea what lies ahead for me here, I cannot wait to find out.

My entire body aches, not just from the travels but from the injuries still healing. The doctor told me the casts on both my wrist and leg needed a minimum of four weeks until they could come off but with my poor hygiene lately, the itching might drive me insane first. Everything else needs to heal on its own. The fractured skull, the bruised ribs and lungs.

My father made sure to make his last beating count, and boy was he close to making it stick for good.

As if the twenty-three years of abuse wasn't enough.

"Hey, baby," a raspy voice calls out, sending a spike of adrenaline coursing down my spine.

I ignore the sound, focusing ahead on the signs in the distance.

Yorkville.

Upper East Side.

Broadway and 62nd.

My gaze frantically searches for what I'm looking for, the crowd of people dissipating from around me when a break in the rain comes.

A hand grabs onto my shoulder, their fingers digging in. I shrink, recoiling away.

"Baby, where are you headed?" The question is followed by a cough, and then a loud belch and a laugh. "Excuse me." The apology is exaggerated and clearly sarcastic.

With too much force, I shift my weight onto my hurt leg and ignore the fierce rippling of pain as I advance from the creep. My good foot lands straight into a puddle, soaking my entire shin with disgusting street water. Tears glisten my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

I'm this close,I remind myself and put one foot in front of the other.

"Oh, baby, don't leave me—" But he trails off there.

Halfway across the street, I glance over my shoulder to see him slumped into the corner of the bus stop, his face pressed against the brown paper-bag-covered booze he's using as a pillow.

My shoulders release the slightest bit of tension, but nothing compared to what I'm going to experience when I finally get to where I'm trying to go.

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