Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I never wanted anyone to have that kind of control over me again. It was time for me to be the boss. Well, me and Cesare. Somehow, I didn’t mind when he took charge. He wasn’t just family, he was a good man. And those were rare these days.
Finishing off my nearly empty glass, I surveyed the dark bar. There were a few guys I recognized by sight, but no one I really knew. That was probably a good thing given the foul mood I was in tonight.
Music piped through the creaky overhead system. There were a couple of ancient pool tables on the other side of the room, and I couldn’t see past the two corner pockets nearest to me. The purplish light fixtures on the ceiling were well overdue for replacement. Pretty much everything in this place was. The clientele here wasn’t exactly made up of fine, upstanding citizens.
Most of the regulars were bikers and other shady individuals, myself included. Once, the cops had barged in and arrested two men who were afterwards tried for a series of burglaries. But, I wasn’t going to go anywhere else. Amanda’s was the only place I liked hanging out within walking distance from my apartment. I didn’t like to drink my ass off and get back behind the wheel. I didn’t drink often, but, tonight, I actually felt the need to do so. Alcohol would numb my senses and take my mind off my recent failure.
I shifted on my stool at the bar, spotting Amanda herself to my left.
The bar’s manager came over and frowned at me. “Did someone die or something? Because, I’m telling you, you look like someone died.”
I smiled bitterly. “Almost.”
The middle-aged woman’s smile faded, and she paused her perpetual gum chewing. “I heard your buddy Leonardo got hurt. He’s a good kid.”
I nodded automatically, but I couldn’t help examining her statement. In what world was a nearly thirty-year old guy with a long crime sheet and the impulse control of a squirrel on meth a good kid?
Oh yeah, this world. And as it happened, I agreed with her.
She patted my shoulder and took off, moving on to talk to other customers as she usually did this time in the evening.
I finished my beer and caught a biker over by a pool table staring at something behind me. He muttered something, drawing his friend’s attention. The two of set their cues down on the floor between their feet. My curiosity piqued, I looked back over my shoulder.
The sight that greeted me was bizarre. For a moment, I thought I wasn’t in Amanda’s, but at a much fancier place. There was a beautiful brunette, just five feet from the gray, steel entrance. Her outfit perplexed me. She had a deep purple dress that looked way too classy for this joint. It ended above her knees. Her black high heeled boots revealed very shapely legs that warranted a second or third glance. But her purse was out of place, too. The leather bag, I knew from my youthful days of stealing and fleecing, was worth several thousand dollars.
Yet, the stranger’s appearance was not the weirdest thing about her.
That would have to be her company.
Her huge company to be exact.
She had one bodyguard on either side. Both of them were in gray suits and wore black ties, their fingers interlocked over their flat stomachs. Their muscles and their demeanor clearly spoke of mob involvement.
I looked on in bewilderment. This fine woman didn’t belong in this bar. She started off, locking her gaze with mine, for some reason that still eluded me. Her black hair was glossy, flowing to her chest. Her scarlet lipstick made an amazing contrast with her smooth, white skin.
“Mr. Borelli? Mr. Matteo Borelli?” Her silky, feminine voice seemed at odds with the self-assurance that radiated off of her.
I tensed, not exactly on edge, but not relaxed, either. The night had just gotten more interesting.
“You must be lost,” I said casually. “The fashion district is miles from here. And I missed the part where you told me how you know my name.”
“I’m Maggie Owens-Roselli,” she said, smoothly perching on the stool next to mine, her goons just three paces away. “I don’t disclose my sources, Mr. Borelli. I consider that highly unprofessional. Please don’t ask again.”
“Then why should I bother talking to you?” I looked down into her flashing eyes. “I mean, you want to talk to me, right? That’s why you sat next to me.”
“That’s true,” she said, giving a series of nods. “I hope your friend Leonardo is recovering nicely.”
I took a deep breath, taking a few moments to process what she’d just said, and the expression on her face. It seemed a pretty safe bet that Maggie knew more about what had happened to Leonardo than Amanda had.