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)
I sucked a breath into my nose. “The Famiglia got rich, you motherfucker, and I was on the rise. I was dragging your dumb asses with me, and if you had just stayed the course and didn’t listen to that stupid piece-of-shit Tommy, we’d all be better off right now.”
“Maybe you’re right, but here we are.”
I lean forward. “Tell Paulie I said he’s a piece of shit and I hope you both burn.”
Then something hard hits me in the back of the head. I gasp in pain and stagger sideways. Roc twists and clocks me in the jaw, and I stagger, only keeping myself upright by leaning against the wall.
A sawed-off chunk of a 2x4 flies at my head. I barely duck. I’m dizzy, not thinking clearly, and everything around me is shapes. There’s shouting, and the wood beam comes at me again, and this time I take it on the arm. My left shoulder goes dead, but I lurch forward, lunging at my attacker with the gun. I bash him in the face and shove the barrel into a cheek.
The revolver cracks and blood splatters. There’s a scream, and a grunt, and I shoot again. This time, the top of the bastard’s head gets blown off. I look around wildly and catch Roc running toward the far end of the alley. I aim and shoot, but I miss him, and he turns the corner, his arms and legs pumping wildly as he sprints.
Below me, a body goes cold and doesn’t move, and it takes a second to recognize Vito. His expression is surprised and his eyes and skull are mangled. He’s got a piece of scrap wood gripped in both hands.
“Should’ve fucking shot me,” I growl at him and shove myself to my feet.
Blood runs down my cheek. Asshole hit me hard. I hurry away from the corpse, going the opposite direction of Roc, angling to my truck. On the way home, I’ll wipe off the gun and toss it into a drain, and I won’t mourn Vito’s passing for a single second.
But as I climb behind the wheel, something occurs to me.
They were working together. When Vito went on the run—he stumbled straight into Roc’s arms. I bet they were planning on meeting here tonight, and I got lucky as fuck that Vito wasn’t carrying. Otherwise, I’d be dead.
I have a feeling I know where Roc’s headed.
Chapter 23
Claudia
I’m exhausted from my shift at Cage. Tommy had me dancing all night without a break, even when I asked to do some waitressing. Rodrigo seemed apologetic, but made it clear that the big boss wanted me shaking my ass whether I liked it or not, and I was racked with anxiety from the second I hit the floor to the moment I clocked out.
It felt like Tommy was punishing me.
As I trudge up to my apartment, I slow and come to a stop. There’s a shape next to my door, a body wearing a big black jacket slumped to the side. It has to be Rodney on another one of his binges here to ask for money, and if I walk over there he’s going to harass me until he gets what he wants.
And after what Serena told me, I’m afraid I might kill him.
More guilt hits me. I’ve been keeping Rodney afloat all this time thinking he was just an asshole, but still the guy that took in two orphaned kids even though he clearly wasn’t up to the task of becoming a father. A part of me always pitied him, even though he was such a bastard.
But that part’s long dead now. I despise my uncle with every burning inch of my body, and I feel like I might be sick as I move closer to him.
The body moves. He sits up and looks at me, and I startle and stare.
It’s Angelo, not Rodney.
“Hey, baby,” he says, grinning a little. “I decided to respect your privacy.”
There’s dried blood on his face and he looks pale. I run to him, Rodney forgotten, and kneel down at his side. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“Had a disagreement with some old friends.” He grimaces as he adjusts his position. His left arm is cradled in his lap and his sleeve is sticky with more blood.
“Get inside,” I order and unlock my door. He climbs to his feet, waving off my offer of help, and shuffles into the apartment behind me. I lead him right to the bathroom and start the shower. “What happened? Tell me everything.”
He gives me the story as he undresses. The shirt comes off first and I’m distracted by his sculpted chest and abs, right up until I see the wounds on his arm and the bruises on his body.
“Angelo, Jesus, you need a doctor,” I say, staring at the ripped-open stitched gashes.