Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
He comes around the corner, slipping between a minivan and an SUV. He steps into the light, smiling. His hair is pushed back and messy, oil-slicked. Big black rings hang beneath his eyes. His clothes are rumpled, like he slept in them. But it’s still Danil, with his predatory stare, his snake-like calm, that vicious smile. He stays ten feet away on the other side of the ramp.
“You came,” he says as if it was in doubt.
“I said I would.” I glance around. Our voices bounce down the tunnel and are lost to the deeper levels. “Are we alone?”
He tilts his head. “I had the same question.” Which means probably not. I can’t imagine he would’ve taken this risk without backup.
“You’re the one that dragged me here. Why the hell are we meeting at the hospital, of all places?”
“I thought it was clever to see you right under their nose. Besides, I suspect it’s one of the few places your husband would let you go without him. Am I right?”
He’s right, but I don’t let it show. “We’re here. You wanted this meeting. What’s your big idea?” He kept teasing something via text, some master plan he thinks will finally topple the Bruno Famiglia and right the world once and for all. He masks his true intentions in the language of revolution, but we both know that’s an absurd joke. There’s nothing revolutionary about a bratva pakhan.
He steps closer. One step onto the ramp, but no more. He glances around like he’s unsure of himself, and it’s the first sign that Casso might be right: whatever Nico’s doing all across the city has Danil spooked. Men are dead, and Danil’s wondering if he’s next. That’s why we’re having this meeting in the first place, why he reached out the way he did, why he’s taking this risk. Spooked men do drastic things.
I try to focus on that. If I keep thinking Danil’s some kind of monster, and that he’s invincible, that he’s been running this all from the shadows, then I’m going to lose my nerve and panic, and that’s the one thing I can’t do right now.
“We have so much in common, Olivia,” he says, voice pitched lower. “The Bruno family ruined our lives. Don’t you see the symmetry? You and I, we’re victims, and we’re from the same world.”
“How did they hurt you?”
“They did what the Bruno Famiglia does best. They killed. They murdered. They stole. Everything my father built, the Brunos ripped it away and left us a husk of our former selves. Do you remember what it was like back in the day? Before the war ruined everything?”
I do remember. I think about it all the time and it kills me, all the what-ifs and possibilities. Casso’s bullying was my biggest concern before Manuel died. I was happy and naive back then, just another girl in high school thinking about college and boys and summer jobs, back before I was forced to grow up and become what I am today.
Stronger. More resilient. A little bit wounded, a little bit broken. But my own person.
“My brother was alive back then,” I say and hug myself tighter. That’s the only thing I’d change—if I could bring my brother back, I would.
“He was alive, and so was my father. We have so much in common, Olivia.” He comes closer. One more step, then another. He thinks we’re the same, but we’re not, not at all. He reacted to what happened with bitterness and violence. But I found a better way. “They died in an explosion. Did Casso tell you that? My father and your brother died from same car bomb, and the only person that walked away was Don Bruno. Do you think that’s a coincidence? We’re too much alike.”
Anger flares. He’s trying to make me think the Bruno Famiglia was involved in that bomb, but I know he’s wrong, and I hate him for it. I hate him so much that I decide to go off-script because I can’t keep going on like this. I need to know the truth, and I’ll never figure it out if I let Casso do what he plans without acting first.
I take a step forward now. It’s my turn to close the distance. I feel the tension like a weighted blanket on my shoulders. We’re eight feet apart at most and I’m breathing hard. I could lunge forward and punch him in the throat.
“Didn’t that bomb go off on Don Bruno’s car?” I ask and try to suppress my revulsion.
His eyes widen a fraction, but his lips tug into a smile. He’s surprised and he’s struggling to pretend like he’s amused instead. “You know about it then.”
“The Bruno family talks, especially when they’ve been drinking.” Improvising now, desperate and stupid. If I mess up and he sees through my story then I’m screwed, but I have to try. He’s rattled, and rattled men make mistakes, that’s what Casso said. I have to try. I’d hate myself if I didn’t.