Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Instead, I keep thinking of Stefania.
She’s probably worried. We’ve been fucking like my dick’s about to fall off and it’s been the best few days of my life, even though I have a million reasons to stress. My father’s still in the hospital and my family is about to plunge into a brutal, ugly conflict. And yet all I can do is touch my wife, kiss her, taste her, drink her in, wrap my arms around her and hold her tight.
Because I feel safe when I’m deep between her legs.
And I feel right when she’s in bed with me, breathing to my rhythm, wrapped in my sheets.
My fucking wife. When did this even happen? I’m supposed to be cold and emotionless. Instead, I have all these feelings swirling around me, and I like them. That’s the worst part—I like the way I am when I’m with her.
I catch sight of Emilio again. Another gesture and I tense. I hear footsteps coming toward me, walking fast, and I count them in my head. One, two, three, four—
I throw myself around the corner of the alley and slam my arm out, catching my target right in the throat. It clotheslines him over, throwing his feet out straight into the air, and he slams down onto the hard sidewalk with an ugly thud.
“What the fuck?” he groans as I grab his boot and drag him into the alley.
He starts to struggle. I think he realizes something’s up. I kick him hard in the ribs and he curls into himself. The fucker’s young, in his early twenties, with shoulders like a bull and a gut to match. He’s shorter than me by a head with a trim beard and an immaculate fade. The fucker’s Cubs hat fell off and it sits in a pool of stagnant water.
I stomp him again and kneel on his chest, drawing out a thin knife, flipping the blade in one easy, practiced motion. His eyes widen, his hands hanging in the air as I press it against his throat.
“I have one question,” I ask through my teeth. “Where is Santoro?”
The guy doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. His brown eyes judder around like he might find help, but there’s nobody.
The stupid bastard has a routine. His name is Joey Wick, and he’s one of Santoro’s workers, not quite a Capo, but not a lowly soldier, either. Joey manages a club for his boss near here, and every night after close, he takes his route back to his shitty apartment.
“Better start talking, Joey,” I snarl and press the knife tighter. “Or I’m going to kill you and move on to someone else.”
“I don’t know,” he whispers and his voice comes out harsh. “I’m nobody. I don’t know where the boss is.”
“Start thinking.” I rear back and slam my fist into his mouth. He groans and his head lolls to the side as he spits blood onto the ground. I shove the knife back into position, this time cutting him slightly. “Where is Santoro?”
“I don’t know,” he says, pleading now. “Seriously, I’m a fucking nobody. Come on, man, I don’t know where Santoro’s staying. I can tell you where my boss is—”
“Talk,” I snarl, two seconds away from gutting him and moving on.
“He’s always at the Dirty Rotten. It’s a club a few blocks south of here. He’s there every fucking night.”
“Your Capo?”
“Yeah, my fucking Capo, okay? Just put the knife down, man.”
Suddenly, sirens scream nearby. They’re a few blocks away, but they’re close, and getting closer. I stare across the street and Emilio’s flashing signs at me, telling me to get out of there.
I stare back at Joey, and he’s smirking now.
“What the fuck did you do?” I snarl in his face.
“Guess I got some friends in the neighborhood.”
I curse and press the knife tighter. He must’ve hired some local kids to watch his back and call the cops if something ever happened to him on his walk home. It was a pretty common insurance move for some of these scumbags.
Except in this case, it’s backfiring.
“Here’s your mistake,” I whisper, getting close. The sirens are louder and I should already be running, but I’m too angry to move. “You thought I’d care about having blood on my hands.”
“Wait—” he starts but I plunge my blade into his throat and saw across his windpipe. He gags, struggling and flailing like a fucking animal, but it’s too late. I shove off him as he bleeds out, his life pumping from a jagged gash in his ugly neck. The sirens are a block away and Emilio’s already gone.
I run to the opposite end of the alley and throw myself onto the next block over. I’m covered in blood, but exhilarated, and I’m lucky there’s nobody around. I sprint across the street, through an empty lot, and on to the next street over, where I proceed to hop fences, skirt parked cars, and prowl in the darkness until a car comes screaming to a halt in front of me. Emilio’s behind the wheel, and he doesn’t look happy.