Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“I know it’s not ideal,” I told her as she immediately started to scarf down the nuggets, “but I will get you, you know, proper dog shit in a little bit, okay?” I asked, but she was too happy eating to give me another look as I made my way back out of the building.
There was a reason drug dealers like my neighbors had dogs.
Cameras could be thwarted. Security systems could be hacked. People could be bribed.
But a territorial dog?
They could scare off even some of the most hardened criminals. Or, at the very least, alert you that something was wrong.
“Rip the throats out of anyone who tries to come in here, and I promise you will get a steak dinner,” I told her as I made my way back out, adding going to the pet store to my list of things to do.
It looked like getting felt up by a lady at the bra store was now off my list of priorities.
My left tit wasn’t exactly happy about that.
But we all had to make sacrifices when someone had fucked with business.
I had to hit the streets and figure out how the fuck some Czech group I didn’t even know existed managed to get into my building and steal my entire fucking inventory.
Then, well, then I had to get that shit back.
CHAPTER THREE
Anthony
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry!” the woman said, eyes saucers as she frantically reached for napkins to wipe the coffee off my shirt.
The least of my concerns was my dry-clean-only shirt as the hot coffee burned through the material and into the skin of my chest and stomach. And I didn’t think it would exactly be appropriate to strip out of said shirt in a public place.
“It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” I insisted, wondering if the burns would be self-treatable, or if I had yet another visit to Salvatore ahead of me.
“Let me give you my number so I can at least pay for your dry-cleaning,” she said, already trying to fish into her purse for, I assumed, a paper and pen.
“Really, don’t worry about it,” I told her, forcing a smile I didn’t feel as my shirt brushed across my oversensitive burned skin. “I’m fine,” I told her as she turned to accept a replacement coffee from a concerned-looking barista.
“Again,” she said, frazzled, but checking her watch like she was late for something, “I’m so sorry,” she told me as she grabbed her coffee and ran out the door.
“You okay?” the same barista asked as she passed me my coffee.
“I’ll be fine,” I told her, nodding for emphasis, then making my way out to the truck I had parked down the side street.
It wasn’t the same, giant, clunky one I’d used back in the day to help Lorenzo out of a bind that had finally put me on his radar. As much as I loved that one, it would stand out way too fucking much on the city streets. This new one looked more like an SUV, but had a small truck bed in case I needed it to cart anything… messy around.
I didn’t have a lot of use for a vehicle in my daily life in the city. And it was probably financially irresponsible of me to pay for parking for it, but on occasion, it was nice not to have to ask Lorenzo or another capo to use of one of their cars when I needed one.
Like now.
For a fucking stakeout.
Whatever excitement I’d felt at the idea of getting a job of my own kind of fizzled out when I was told that all I would be doing was a little surveillance.
At first, I reminded myself. Lorenzo said that was all it would be at first. He had heard whispers about a Czech crew puffing their chests, and he wanted to know if it was something he actually needed to worry about, or if it was just a small crew who wanted control of a neighborhood.
And, of course, if they would kick-up to us.
If not, they had no right to take over a neighborhood, period.
So, yeah, I had a passenger floor well stocked with a cooler full of food, a couple bottles of water, my coffee, binoculars, and a discreet, but powerful, camera.
It was my first official stakeout.
I mean, sure, I’d sat outside of buildings and watched crews before, but mostly because my Family was inside.
This was different.
And I was determined to do a good job. Even if all I had to tell him was that this crew was a bunch of low-level guys who had no chance of becoming any sort of threat.
So there I was, parked at the end of the block of historic clapboard row houses in Washington Heights where Lorenzo’s intel said we could find these guys.
I dunno about for Lorenzo, but red flags immediately went up for me hearing that. Because, yeah, Washington Heights was more affordable than a lot of other neighborhoods in Manhattan, but these weren’t apartments. They were townhouses. They were houses.