Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“That’s beneath you now, isn’t it? The general doesn’t do the work of the infantry.”
His choice of words makes me laugh. “You want to take a shot at them yourself?”
“Why the fuck not?” The leather squeaks when he tightens his grip on the wheel. “It’s been too long for me, too. I wouldn’t mind a bit. Motherfuckers think they can do whatever they want, whenever they feel like it. Reminders need to be issued sometimes.”
Of all times for Bianca’s face to flash in front of my mind’s eye. No matter how I want to punish these stupid, careless bastards for fucking with my revenue and reputation, I want to punish her more. She’s fucked with my entire life, invaded every thought, and turned me into someone I hardly recognize.
And I still want her. With every fucking molecule in my body, I want her.
I can’t have her.
My phone buzzes a few minutes from the warehouse. I expect to find one of the sons of bitches from the warehouse on the ID, but the number comes up as unlisted. “Yeah?” I grunt on answering. With the mood I’m in, I almost hope it’s a telemarketer to curse the fuck out.
“Mr. Torrio. It’s Joe.”
Of course, a professional hitman would call from a burner phone. “Joe. Good to hear from you. I had planned to reach out sometime this week.” Romero looks my way from the corner of his eye.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” As usual, he jumps headfirst into business, and as usual, I appreciate it. “I have little to report. Our friend has been around town with a kid young enough to be her son, but that’s the only recent development.”
“That young?” I’m gritting my teeth hard enough that my jaw aches. Amanda, with some kid, running around in public. “Who is he?”
“I wasn’t able to get a decent shot of him. It was too dark. But they were out in public, nothing sneaky, and it didn’t seem romantic. I thought you’d want to know, though.”
For lack of anything better to tell me, in other words. “You haven’t found anything else in weeks?”
She’s with a kid. A fucking kid.
Bianca is practically a kid, too.
“She’s a slippery one, Mr. Torrio.” He pauses, then adds, “If you feel my services have been less than satisfactory, I respect your decision.”
The warehouse is in front of us now, with Romero pulling into the lot surrounding it. Between these fuckers and the fucker on the phone, I’m a hairsbreadth away from a murder charge. My chest is so tight I have to fight to draw breath.
“We’ll discuss that later. I’m on my way in to a meeting. For now, stay the course.” Even if the course is looking like a pointless waste of time and money.
My phone bounces off the dash and lands on the floor while I growl out my fury. “Either this guy’s reputation was a bunch of shit, or she’s a hell of a lot smarter than I ever gave her credit for. How can he come up without a single scrap of evidence against that bitch?”
“She’s smart, like you said,” Romero muses as he puts the car in park, then reaches into the glovebox for his Glock. “Slippery. Clever.”
Yes, she is, like so many women are. There’s always something going on beneath the surface. Something they’re trying to hide. Some angle they’re working.
Not Bianca. Damn it, what the fuck am I doing thinking about her at a time like this? And what makes her any different from the rest of them? She’s nothing unique. It’s my cock that makes me want to believe that.
Ruined my life and turned me into a weak piece of shit addicted to the smell of her pussy in days. I knew it would end up like this, but I’m the stupid bastard who walked in with both eyes open.
With a furious grunt, I throw the door open and burst from the car. Normally, I’d take things easier and come in with a level head. Let them think I’m not coming in to blow their heads off for fucking me over. I don’t have it in me to pretend today.
Romero’s hot on my heels as we walk in. The sight of us causes two jean-clad men to end their smoke break out by the dock and jog into the office. Their tense whispers as we cross the warehouse floor tell me there’s no guessing why we’re paying this visit. They’re scared out of their minds.
“Chuck!” My bark echoes in the cavernous space. Looking around, I spot our crates waiting to be loaded. “What, you can’t come out and greet me? I thought we were better than that.”
The pot-bellied warehouse manager I made the mistake of putting on my payroll lumbers out of his office, mopping his forehead with a bandana. He shoves into his back pocket before holding both hands up in surrender.