Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
“Vita mia, let me make this right.” There’s a desperation in his voice, one I only hear when he’s taking me in the middle of the night, both of us lost in the throes of passion.
“I don’t know that you can.” My shoulders sag in defeat. Nico takes that time to come stand behind me, not touching me. Instead, he’s hovering there, waiting for permission. The man who dominates my body in bed is apprehensive right now. That shows me he knows mistakes were made. The one thing I’m banking on is his willingness to fix it.
“I will, Journey, believe me, I will.” His phone chooses that moment to ring. Please don’t answer, please don’t answer, I chant inside my head. He answers it, though, demolishing any hopes and dreams I may have had.
TWENTY-ONE
Nico
“What?” I answer the phone pissed that this fucking thing has yet to stop ringing, even when I told the guys tonight was off-limits. Journey is standing at the stove, shoulders quaking, and here I am, ignoring all the signs of breaking her heart because of one man, a powerful man who continues to slip through our fingers.
“Boss, I know you’re off tonight, but you gotta see this,” Angelo, another guy in the famiglia, says on the other end of the line. Enzo is taking a few hours off after working all day and night, leaving me to answer the phone. Which is fucking bullshit. Things will have to change quickly.
“Where?” My temper is barely holding on by a thread, causing me to use one-word answers.
“The restaurant’s got someone you’re going to want to question.” I walk out of the kitchen, not wanting Journey to hear the rest of this conversation. It pains me to walk away from the woman I think about constantly, attempting to save her from the fucking Russian who has a hard-on for not only my territory but my wife.
“You secure?” I ask before continuing the conversation. I didn’t pay attention to the number that popped up on my screen when Angelo first called. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; the only thing I was trying to do was hurry the conversation along, and clearly, that isn’t happening.
“Yes, boss,” he replies.
“Good, tell me what you have, and make it fast before my wife burns the fucking house down,” I grumble. Journey isn’t much of a cook, never has been, and at the rate our lives are going, probably never will be either. It’s why I make sure Lucia, the housekeeper, ensures there’s food in the fridge that’s easy to throw in the oven to heat up, or my mamma will come over and bring food by the carload.
“Trouble in paradise. I remember those days. Take my advice: apologize. It doesn’t matter if you did something wrong or not, pride has no room in a marriage,” Angelo offers before going on about the subject he called me for originally. “Anyways, didn’t get the right-hand man but got someone better than we have all along. He’s in the back currently, refusing to talk. I figure he will for you.” Glad Angelo kept it short and didn’t go into details, something that was drilled into our heads at an early age. Lately, though, it seems people have slacked on a lot of things. At the rate shit is going down, the only solid thing we got is laundering our money through Wylder’s hotel and casino.
“Calling Enzo now. See you shortly.” I hang up the phone as I walk back towards the kitchen. Angelo is right. Journey deserves an apology. Shit, she deserves ten times more than that, and I’m going to give her all that and more after I see who Angelo has at our famiglia restaurant. We have warehouses, but that’s not where we like to play. We prefer the back of the real homemade Italian-style building, the smells of garlic and sauce simmering in the background, the music drowning out what needs to be drowned out when we take them to a location that looks like a butchering area. And once I get my hands on Petrov, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing, using the cleaver to cut off each of his fingers one by one until he’s no longer able to write or type up his sick and demented notes he’s leaving all over town. Then I’ll cut out his tongue, taking the time to serrate it, seeing how he doesn’t know how to be a real man and sit down for a meeting. It’s the least I can do. I won’t stop until he’s bleeding, unconscious. Only then will I take him out to the desert, an area owned by us where no one monitors our comings and goings. A shell corporation is on the paperwork. I’ll dig a hole by my goddamn self and bury him in a shallow grave, leaving his head above sand. The vultures will do their job, waking him up to peck his eyeballs out of him. A cruel way to die, but fuck with what’s mine, and mi famiglia fuck back harder every single time.