Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Listen—”
“People don’t die like usual? There’s a new way of dying now?” For the second gun, I placed it in the front waistband.
This positioning allowed for easy access while minimizing the risk of accidental discharge.
“How about this.” Anthony put the keys in his jacket and showed off the two guns under it. “There could be at least ten men inside—”
“It should be seven, no more no less.”
“Seven?”
“Francesca’s favorite number.” Next, I put on the bullet proof vest. “She always got antsy if it was more at the spots. She has two top levels of men who are capos. And for each level, she always kept it at seven.”
Anthony eyed me. “So, there’s probably seven guys in there?”
“Not probably.” With both firearms securely in place, I put the jacket back on. “Only seven, not including the bartender who will be a civilian—non combative. I’ll let him leave and kill the rest.”
“Seven men? By yourself?”
“By myself.” I straightened my tie and adjusted my jacket, careful to keep the guns concealed. “If you need something to do, keep the car running so we can make a fast exit.”
Anthony frowned. “And will I need to do anything else, sir?”
“Yeah.”
His frown deepened.
“We’re going to Hanzō Couture so I can get better guns.”
He twisted his face in confusion. “The suit shop on 15th Street?”
“Yeah.” I opened the door. “Be ready to head there, when I return.”
Anthony sighed but said nothing.
I left the car and walked towards The Blood Den.
The vibrant strings of Christmas lights, reflecting off the snow-dusted sidewalks, cast a cheerful glow that seemed out of place with my grim purpose.
In fact, they reminded me of Christmases from a time that now felt like another life—a time of innocence and joy, where the spirit of the season was about my Crimson Mob family and celebration.
Not vengeance.
Memories of laughter and warmth from those Christmases long gone filled my mind. I used to spend a year coming up with the best presents to get Francesca and the others.
I recalled the sound of past carols floating in the air, the scent of pine and spiced cider, and the feel of soft snowflakes melting on my skin.
And then there was the Christmas Eve that I proposed to Zuri—a memory that now felt like a distant heartbreaking dream.
Zuri’s bedroom aglow with the soft light of her Christmas tree.
Snow falling outside her window.
We were wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and love.
Zuri. . .
A bittersweet ache filled my heart.
Don’t think about that now.
My resolve hardened.
One of my favorite lines from the Count of Monte Cristo hit my mind.
Life is a storm, my young friend.
I carefully adjusted my jacket to conceal the bulge of the guns.
You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next.
Each step was calculated, my gaze sharp and alert.
What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.
Getting closer and closer, I sneered at the gargoyles on the roof.
You must look into that storm and shout. . .
I spotted the secret cameras discreetly positioned around the entrance.
Security in Francesca’s main headquarters would be watching.
Have they recognized me yet?
In my mind, the plan was clear: I wanted the Red Widow to know it was me. I wanted her to see me coming through those doors, to understand that her reign would soon be over.
I’m back. Now, let’s have fun.
She wouldn’t see this footage in the moment.
The Red Widow was too busy for that.
But, they would have to show her later. . .once I killed all her top capos inside.
Merry Fucking Christmas.
I pictured her, sitting in some lavish room, watching the laptop screen as security held it in front of her.
May she stew in her fucking paranoia.
A dark chuckle left me.
Let her realize that her empire was not as untouchable as she believed.
My hand brushed against the fabric of my jacket, feeling the cold, hard outline of the gun.
Reaching the door, I paused for a moment and considered the last part of that Count of Monte Cristo line.
You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome. Do your worst, for I will do mine!
With a final glance at the cameras, I pushed the door open.
It creaked open, announcing my presence, and the low murmur of conversation inside died in an instant.
I locked eyes with the seven men seated at the bar, and the recognition in their faces was unmistakable. Their eyes widened in horror. Their mouths opened.
But to my surprise, one of them was my old friend Marly. He had been the only man from that night long ago to survive.
You won’t survive today. I promise.
I checked to confirm the rest of the place was empty of innocents.
Good.
I returned my view back to the seven idiots and could see them trying to process the impossible—Dante, out of jail, standing tall and with rage on his face.