Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The looks he gives me sears every inch of my body.
“I’m not sure I can fake anything with you,” he says and walks away.
“Great line!” I shout after him. “But save it for Cage next time! You know, so Tommy gets the good stuff!”
My front door slams shut and I feel like a moron.
Chapter 15
Angelo
Itook things too far. I shouldn’t have touched her, and I shouldn’t have kissed her, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have thought about fucking her raw and wet right there on the counter.
I didn’t lie when I said I’d never leave if I didn’t stop right that second.
My truck’s quiet and dark. The block’s a residential area, lots of houses, not the most expensive area but not the worst, either. I’d bet more than a few families live here.
And the one house I’m sitting across from fits right in. White shutters, blue siding. The lawn needs a cut and the flower bed is a little overgrown, but it’s otherwise fine. A black hatchback sits in the driveway, the same beater Vito used to drive five years back. The cheap idiot’s still using the same old car.
But the house is new. From what I gather, he’s doing pretty good for himself. Still grinding out in the lower levels of the Famiglia doing grunt work and drug deals, but not too bad for a guy who was there the night a high-ranking capo got busted.
The place seems calm and quiet, and I don’t think Vito knows I’m here. Asking Seamus to do the job was a good call—I could’ve gotten this address myself without much trouble, but word travels fast through the Famiglia and Vito would’ve heard that I was asking around for him.
And that might’ve spooked the traitor fuck.
I sit low in the truck and wait. I keep thinking about Claudia, about her mouth on mine, about having some fake sexual fling that I’m pretty sure isn’t remotely fake. About her dancing in the club, her beautiful skin, the glittery body lotion she wears, her pouty lips and curly hair. It’s a distraction, but I’m bored and lonely, and I indulge myself a little bit.
Prison wasn’t easy. There were days when I felt like I was going to lose my mind if I couldn’t touch a woman. I tortured myself, dreaming of a warm body in my bed, and it took a couple of years before I finally banished those thoughts. But now, being back on the outside, it’s like my foot’s been asleep and it’s suddenly waking up, all pins and needles and discomfort and pain.
That part of me has been dormant behind bars. And now Claudia’s bringing it back ten times stronger than I ever dreamed possible.
I don’t know what to do with myself. She’s in my head constantly, an itch I can’t satisfy, a hunger that only gets worse whenever she’s around. Taking her won’t make it go away—tasting her will only make me need her again and again.
Maybe I’m kidding myself. Bringing her into this job might be a terrible idea. I keep pretending like I can handle it, but the fact that I’m sitting outside of Vito’s house right now, and all I can do is daydream about fucking Claudia, suggests otherwise.
I get my head in the game. This is too dangerous to half-ass. The house’s lights are all off, but there’s a flicker in the front window. Someone’s awake and watching TV in the dark. It’s a little past one in the morning and I have no idea what Vito’s hours are like these days—it’s entirely possible he’s fast asleep on the couch.
Years ago, before prison, I would’ve taken my time with this. I would’ve scouted it out, followed him for a few days, gotten a feel for his schedule and his routine before making a move.
Now, fuck all that. I waited long enough locked in a cage.
At two, the inside still flickering with electric noise, I sneak out of my truck and cross the street. Nearby street lamps glow yellow. I cross toward a hedge and pause, crouching in the dark. If a neighbor peers outside, they’ll spot a big shadowy shape in the gloom. Let them call the cops. I move slowly around the side of the house, feel for a latch at the gate, find it, and swiftly go into the back yard.
It’s clipped and trimmed though the flower beds are unruly. The landscaping’s even worse back here. A lawnmower sits sentinel near the backdoor, the engine cover starting to rust. I draw my Smith & Wesson 686-6, check the cylinder, snap it shut silently. Six rounds of .36 Special, enough to blow Vito’s skull to tiny pieces. The grip’s been worked in and custom molded for my fingers. It feels fucking good to have my own weapon again as I check the back door and find it locked.