Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Alessandro,” he said, greeting my father.
“Luciano.” Dad grunted the name. “I want to make this fast.”
“Why, old friend?” Santoro’s smile was sneering and entirely too confident. My eyes strayed from the old man and began to scrutinize every person nearby, but there were too many. Kids weaved through the crowd, running from their parents. Others shouted and laughed nearby.
“I wanted you gone from my city.” Dad’s voice is pure venom. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. You deserved death and so much worse for what you did to my family. And now you’re stealing from me.”
Santoro shook his head. “I’m stealing guns you plan on using to kill me. Come now, Alessandro, don’t act like you’re the aggrieved party here. What happened between us was purely business. Your boys were never meant to be a part of that.”
“And yet they were.” Dad stepped forward, trembling, and I’m amazed at how angry he seems. I thought I’d be the one losing my mind, except I feel calm.
Santoro’s just a man. He’s been a fifty-foot giant in my dreams for so long, but now that I’m seeing him in person, it feels as though the fear’s blown away like mist. He doesn’t have power over me—and he hasn’t for a long time. I could break him if I wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Alessandro. I didn’t come here to litigate the past with you. I’m here because your family’s time as de facto rulers of Chicago is coming to an end, only you don’t realize that yet. You got too big, old friend, and you got much too complacent.”
“Threats?” Dad laughs as he shakes his head. “You were always so ambitious, but look at you now? Running a small, meaningless family, and nibbling at our feet like a bottom-feeding fish. I’ll make this conversation easy on you then. Give us our guns back, or I will make sure my men hunt you down and ruin every single member of your organization.”
Santoro sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He takes a few steps back. “But you never learn, do you?”
“Don’t you walk away,” I bark at him and move forward, pushing past Dad. All my rage comes back without any of the old fear. I might not see him as a mythical creature anymore, but I still hate him for what he did to me. “Come here, Uncle Luciano. Don’t you want to talk about the old days?”
He looks at me for the first time and it’s like there’s no recognition in his eyes. I’m the boy he kidnapped, the boy he kept in a cage, the boy that nearly died in the fire that was meant for him. And he doesn’t care. I’m probably no more than a footnote to him.
I go for my gun. To hell with this. To hell with negotiating. If he’s only a man then he can die like one too, which means all I need is a single bullet to make this entire situation disappear. But the moment I level my weapon, there’s a shout, and the crowd starts screaming as people run in every direction.
I realize my mistake only when it’s too late.
This whole situation was a trap.
The busker tosses his guitar aside and is kneeling down to get a good line on me. A nearby couple are both drawing guns and aiming them in our direction. Dad’s screaming something, and I’m still aiming at Santoro, but he’s grinning wickedly like he couldn’t care less.
The gunfire starts as Dad slams into me and knocks me to the ground.
It’s chaos. Screaming and shouting. I smell blood in the air, and I recognize some of the nearby voices. Dad’s breath comes ragged as he pins me to the ground, and I manage to roll to the side, grunting with the effort it takes. Dad groans in pain as all around me, the crowd panics and screams. Our guards outflank and kill the Santoro assassins, but it’s chaos, and there’s so much blood.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper as I press my palms against a wound in Dad’s stomach. Blood wells up between my fingers and I try to hold it back. “Simon. Simon!”
My older brother falls to his knees beside us. He’s breathing hard, but he seems unhurt. “How bad?”
“Gut shot. I don’t know what else is wounded.”
“Fuck.” He brushes Dad’s forehead. “You’ll be okay, old man. You’re going to be okay.”
“Get Santoro,” Dad says through clenched teeth.
But when I look up, Santoro is gone, and the pier is emptying out.
Bodies lie scattered on the ground. Some of them are Santoro’s people but a few are innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. I get to my knees, shoving myself up, and hoist Dad onto my shoulder, gritting my teeth against every step.
“Call the doctor,” I bark at Dad’s men. “If you don’t move now, your Don might die.”