Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Two nights ago. ‘Natural causes’,” he said, using air quotes.
“It wasn't me,” I said automatically. I wish it had been me, but I never got a chance to pay him a little visit in Ireland, where he’d run once he caught wind that I was looking for him.
“I figured since you haven’t left the country. Still, he’s dead.” Mikey shrugged. “He was the last one.”
I nodded slowly, letting that sink in. We’d been looking for the home invaders that killed our mothers for years. Ray Batiste, Hubert Grant, Aaron Molina, and Bert Michaels. Those names will forever be ingrained in my brain. Dominic and I dealt with the three of them. Ray was the only one who got off easy. He had a knack for making bad decisions, so one of them was bound to catch up to him. I let that sit for a moment. They were all dead. Did I feel peace? No. If anything, I felt rage building.
“What?” Mikey snapped. “I know that look. They’re dead, Rocco. Dead.”
“And you’re fine now? You’re at peace with it?” I searched his eyes and saw the second of hesitation. “Exactly. The person who was pulling the strings may not be dead.”
Someone had killed my mother, Dominic’s mother, and Rosie’s mother. Someone had sent those men to rip our worlds apart, and for what? Territory. That was what everyone agreed on. Territory and power. We’d narrowed it down to the Irish and the Russians. They were the ones who’d zeroed in on some of our businesses while our fathers were distracted. Dominic and Gabe were sent to Italy to be with Giuseppe, who was remarried but still inconsolable in his own way. He’d always said their mother was his true love. The one who got away, he’d said, which was why he was always reminding Dominic not to fuck it up with Rosie. Mikey, Dad, and I visited and stayed in Italy that summer, and it had been dreadful. My father died looking for the men responsible for the murders. Mikey became a detective because of it. I’d joined the military, was recruited by another agency, and later, became part of the family business my brother refused to partake in.
“Whoever pulled the strings is probably dead by now,” Mikey said.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I sat back in my seat.
“It could have been Joe.”
His suggestion made me shoot up in my seat and look around, ensuring no one heard him. I glared at him and whispered, “Joe is one of us. One of ours.”
“You sure about that?” He leaned in as he whispered back. “He faked his death and came back like the second coming of a twisted version of Christ. He’s ruthless enough.”
“Mikey.” I stared at him in disbelief. “He was Dad’s brother. Our uncle.”
“Not by blood.”
“Yes, by blood,” I snapped. “We swore an oath with our blood. That means something.”
“I’m not saying it doesn’t.” He scooted to the edge of his seat, his knees hitting the table between us. “They weren’t like you guys. They said they were brothers, swore an oath, and still stabbed each other in the back any chance they got.”
“They didn’t kill their people. Whoever set that up targeted wives and mothers. Their wives. Our mothers,” I said. “They would never do that. Joe would never do that.”
“Joe’s wife was the only one who remained unscathed by the attacks.”
“Because they didn’t live in Providence.”
“So? If I were trying to make a statement like that, I’d attack everyone, even those out of town.” He took a sip of his drink. “They tried to come after Angelo and Giuseppe in freaking Italy, Rocco. Come on.”
“It makes no sense, Mike.” I shook my head. “It can’t be Joe.”
Joe had taken more territory after it happened, but was he capable of murdering innocent women? No. He’d known those women since they were born. He’d known my mother longer than he knew Giuseppe or my father. They’d all grown up together. It had to be someone in Providence. It had to be someone who knew exactly where we lived and everyone’s schedules. Besides, Joe wouldn’t have wasted his time killing our mothers just to take over a few measly territories. God, fuck Michael. Now that he’d planted the seed, I knew it would be hard to dig it out.
“Who’s that?” he asked. I turned my attention to where he nodded, needing to twist my body to follow his line of vision.
“Who?” I asked, knowing damn well who he was referring to. I’d purposely made myself turn my back to her when I sat here.
“The gorgeous bartender.”
My jaw ticked. “Lenora De Luca.”
“No shit.” He looked at her again, then at me, mouth hanging open, and then back at her. “No. Shit.”
“Yeah, so maybe stop looking at her like that. You look like a creep.”