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)
The cops laughed.
I groaned in annoyance.
Banks winked. “Trust me, it makes them steamy hot.”
“Thanks, Banks!” The officers took the money without a word and continued on their way, leaving us behind without a second glance.
Disbelief washed over me, but I shouldn’t have been that surprised of Rowe Street Mob’s far-reaching influence in the South.
You’ve done good for yourself, Marcelo.
The man with the rifle nudged me, breaking my train of thought. “Move it, Reaper. We don’t have all night.”
Walking forward, I glared at him. “Where’s Anthony? Did you all kill him?”
Chuckling, Banks glanced over his shoulder. “Why the fuck would we kill the leader of Viper Mob. We got enough snakes in Paradise City.”
The other men laughed with him.
Shocked, I blinked. “Anthony isn’t the leader of Viper Mob.”
Mr. Rifle gave me an odd look. “Shit. I bet you won’t say that to his face.”
“It’s Sabato. The Whisper.”
A White man spoke on my right with a long red beard. “Sabato had a stroke four years ago. One side of his face is all sagging and shit.”
Banks continued forward. “He stepped back in operations, and let his sons take over.”
Mr. Rifle nodded. “Now Sabato is like a figure head type.”
“Like Queen Elizabeth and shit.” Banks drew a holy cross in front of him. “May she rest in peace.”
My head spun with the news. “But. . .Sabato only had three sons. I don’t remember any of them named Anthony—”
“Cause dude is a bastard. Mom was a working lady and all that jazz.” Banks shook his head. “But more important. . .I know you wasn’t hanging with the Siren the whole time and didn’t know it. Please don’t tell me that.”
I felt like a complete idiot. “The Siren?”
Red Beard spoke, “They say Anthony has a velvet voice, not for singing of course, but his ability to negotiate peace among rival gangs.”
Banks bobbed his head. “Marcelo even had Anthony step in and use that persuasive, almost hypnotic, eloquence to get our assess in the Diamond Syndicate.”
Someone chuckled. “Banks, you don’t even know the meaning of all those words you used.”
“I sure fucking do. I didn’t drop out of school like your dumbass.”
Anthony. My caroling gangster chauffer is actually the leader?
But, hadn’t I known something was off with him from the very beginning?
When I first spotted him, Anthony had been a study in contradictions—his posture relaxed, yet his eyes sharp and assessing. Old jacket and jeans, yet a half million dollar watch and polished designer shoes.
Still, I tried to wrap my head around the revelation as we headed toward a bar. “So. . .Anthony is the Siren, and he rules Viper Mob?”
Rifle Man lowered his rifle a little. “I also heard they call him the Siren cause he’s good at luring motherfuckers to their death.”
“I’m not trying to find out if that is true or not” Banks laughed and returned to singing, “Shake a hand, shake a hand now.”
I kept a steady pace, noting that Rowe Street Mob had not attempted to shoot me. Additionally, they had simply provided me with information on Anthony.
I’m not in danger, but they want to show me that they have the power and the force. Why?
I studied them.
And, where the fuck are they taking me?
Minutes later, we arrived at a bar, its exterior decked out in festive lights and decorations, although predominantly in shades of green.
The building was nestled between two larger structures, and seemed almost to shrink away, yet the vibrant decorations gave it a lively, inviting appearance.
The windows were frosted over, but through them, I could see the twinkling of Christmas lights, casting a warm, colorful glow.
The entrance was flanked by two large, ornate planters, each holding an evergreen tree adorned with silver baubles and strands of tiny white lights.
Above the door, a hand-painted sign swung gently in the winter breeze, featuring an intricate design of holly leaves and berries.
It read, “Emerald City.”
As we approached, the sound of muffled laughter and music reached my ears.
“Time to have a little talk, Reaper.” Banks pushed open the door, and a wave of warmth, accompanied by the sounds of a lively piano and chatter, welcomed us.
Have a talk about what?
Chapter 15
With One Crack, We All Crumble
Warmth enveloped me as I entered.
The interior was a Christmas wonderland, draped in garland and greenery. Here, the holiday spirit had collided with the underworld.
What is going to happen?
Additionally, the bar was busy, with patrons packed into the tight confines of the room. They were all high-spirited, laughing and striking up conversations with strangers.
The air crackled with excitement.
As we made our way through the crowd, I noticed the walls were adorned with framed photographs and old newspaper clippings of boxing matches.
The bar counter—a polished mahogany—was manned by a female bartender who was rhythmically mixing drinks.
We continued forward and reached the other end of the bar, where a small stage was set up. The current performer was crooning a classic jazz number, his voice rich and smooth, captivating the audience.