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But this woman has confidence on a level I’ve never seen. She’s intelligent. Capable. Ruthless. She’s just like me. Is it narcissistic to say that I love that about her?
This woman could never be pleasured by an accountant. She needs a fucking gangster.
I’m almost happy as I pull through the gates to Remizov’s house. Because I’m about to see Sloane again. I’d rather die next to her than live without her.
