Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 48018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
It is a rare sight I am getting, a perspective into the House of Vitali that few are ever granted.
“Morning,” I say, suddenly shy.
“Why don’t you stop taunting Bobby and make a plate,” he says, a slight glint of warning in his eye.
“Bobby doesn’t mind,” I say with confidence I don’t feel. I glance back at Bobby, who surprises me by smirking. He actually doesn’t seem to mind.
He was rough with me last night. If I lift my fingers to my throat, I can feel a slight raised edge where my body is beginning to mend the damage he did with the knife he held at my throat.
I am sure we do not trust one another, but unlike other houses and families where trust is implicit, or at least it should be, the House of Vitali does not work that way. You do not need to be a good person to be in the fold. You just need to be thoroughly dominated and owned by Angelo, and there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that I now meet that criteria.
I decide to sit at the island with Bobby. Every part of me aches and throbs, so it is easy to forget that there is a particular portion of my anatomy that is significantly worse than the rest. With every step, the ache left from the bruising cane shoots through me, refers to other parts of me, finding my knees and my shoulders, my fingers and my toes.
The second my ass touches the seat at the island, my body is bluntly reminded where all that pain is coming from. A fresh bolt shoots through every part of me and I leap back up, deciding to half-perch, half-lean instead. I can feel Angelo and Bobby sharing a dark smirk as I pick off the serving plates that Angelo has placed on the counter. There’s bacon and warmed croissants and juice. It’s like a continental breakfast at the verge of Hell.
I’m still not safe. To imagine that I am would be delusional. Angelo has a plan for me. He will try to use me sooner or later. But for now, I enjoy breakfast.
“You still mad about yesterday?” I chance the question, indicating Bobby’s neck with a bit of bacon.
“Nah,” Bobby replies. “You’re not a Vitali until you try to kill a Vitali. It’s a… what did you call it, Angelo?”
“Rite of passage,” Angelo says from behind his newspaper.
There is a warmth in Bobby’s eyes that wasn’t there before. I think he’s being genuine. I also think he’s going to have a scar on his neck for as long as he lives.
I have been accepted into their fold as one of them. I’m like Jane Goodall, but among much more dangerous creatures.
Thwip!
The first bullet shatters one of the great floor to ceiling windows, and passes through Angelo’s coffee cup, sending shards of ceramic and splashes of coffee arcing through the air.
Things move in slow motion as the windows shatter, every single one of them turning to an opaque curtain of falling glass. The room is full of noise and light, small projectiles obliterating what was beautiful and refined.
The law has arrived.
I feel a punch low in my stomach. I feel myself falling, suddenly out of my body and above it all, the cool observer of my being taking an interest but feeling no investment in what happens next.
I am caught by Bobby, who grabs me up over his shoulder, scoots low, and runs. My view is of a house being absolutely decimated by gunfire, marble and glass evaporating into shards and sand under high impact rounds.
It all goes dark.
I open my eyes.
Behind a plastic sheet of the kind you can get at any hardware store, I am operated on by a silent surgeon. I am heavily dissociated under the influence of a massive dose of ketamine, but not fully sedated. They don’t have an anesthetist. This is not a hospital. This is the kind of operation that might easily prove just as dangerous as the bullet itself.
I close my eyes.
I open my eyes.
When I wake, I am in what looks like and feels like, and in fact is, a cheap motel room.
Bobby is next to me on the bed, in his shirt sleeves. Something about the way they’re rolled up reminds me of how Angelo looked before the federal government pumped hundreds of rounds into the room. His hair is falling into his eyes, and there’s a look of solemn concern and uncharacteristic maturity around his features.
“Stay still,” he says. “If you pull those stitches, you’ll regret it.”
He speaks sternly, as if I would be in trouble for messing with my stitches. It’s not a tone I’m used to hearing out of his mouth. He sounds very controlled, very calculated. Very caring.
I’m temporarily lost for memories. Something has happened. Context floats just beyond my reach, hazy impressions of bullets and glass and coffee…