Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
The soldier boys are silent, as usual; the only difference this time is that Black bounces his foot up and down in noticeable apprehension.
A lot is riding on this memory of mine.
Lucky for me, I’m still sharp as a tack.
The driver navigates the directions I give him, and before we get there, my mouth turns dry, and I force an audible swallow. My brow damp from the humidity, I close my eyes in trepidation, but I should know better than to question myself.
An hour and forty-five minutes into our desert drive, the driver’s companion opens the hatch separating the navigators from the cargo, and announces, “Sir, we’re approaching some kind of bunker.”
My exhale is long and slow and one of pure relief.
Black looks over at me and nods respectfully. I incline my head in return.
It’s on.
But this time, I ain’t fucking around.
Into the silence of the cab, I announce, “I need a gun.”
All of the soldiers move at the same time, and my defenses rise. I look around at each and every one of their hands extended, pistols offered without question.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say these men were showing me some sign of respect.
I blink over at Black, daring him to say something, as I reach over to take a pistol from the guy sitting next to me. I mutter, “Thanks.”
Soldier boy responds, “No problem.”
I nod, my lips pursing, as I let out a quietly growled, “Let’s knock some heads.”
Life’s situations have a way of pulling emotions from you. The particularly trying moments stretching them so thin that you don’t really feel anymore. You just are. Existing as a drone, and nothing more. But in that state of numbness, those stretched emotions, however slender they may be, are still very much there. Yes, they are there. My mind fingers those emotions like strings of a harp, plucking at cords marked misery, sorrow, and grief, playing an unnamed piece that I will soon call vengeance.
My eyes have become so dry that even blinking feels a chore. But I don’t dare weep, not a single tear, however much I crave the release.
My heart tells me to harness the anguish I feel, to harness and use it.
Which I plan to.
Julius enters the bedroom. I know this because I hear his firm footfalls still once he reaches the bed. My eyes close as I lean over the sink, holding myself up by gripping the sides of the vanity until my knuckles turn white. I breathe deeply, trying to make sense of what I need to do.
Vito Gambino wants me dead. Gio wants the baby I never carried.
Gio murdered Miguel in cold blood and, in my opinion, an eye for an eye has been served. There is no longer need for me to die. My brother took my place. His life was worth so much more than mine.
Julius comes to stand at the open doorway of the bathroom. I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him. If I do, my sorrow will leak out of my eyes, spilling down my cheeks, and with it my fury.
“Baby,” he says in that smooth, gravelly lilt of his, and my stomach churns violently.
“They broke me. He killed my brother and now he wants my sister, Julius,” I mutter coldly. “She’s thirteen years old.” My eyes open, but rather than gazing up at him, I take in my own drawn reflection. “Thirteen.” I shake my head slowly. “He can’t have her. I won’t let him have her.”
“Okay,” he states.
“She’s just a little girl.”
“She is,” he acknowledges.
“He wants to break her. Hurt her. Steal her innocence. Turn her dark like he did me.”
He straightens. “Not gonna happen.”
Frustration wells up in me as I admit, “I need to do something. I don’t know where to go from here. I can’t even think of what to do, where to start.” My voice is weak when I mumble, “I want to kill him, but how—” I lose the words. When I find them again, I speak them resolutely. “How do you plan a murder?”
A long moment of silence, then quietly, “Come with me.”
It’s not a question, because he knows he doesn’t need to ask. Of course I’ll go with him. I’ll follow Julius anywhere, blindly. “Where to?”
“Not far.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his car keys, holding them tightly in his palm.
I need to think, but I’m too wound up. Doing something boring, something uninteresting, like going for a drive, might help clear my head. “And when we get back, you’ll help me? We’ll make a plan?”
He stares down at me, unmoving, before stating, “You and me, baby.”
And it’s the words I need to hear. Those words are a declaration. Julius will help me, help rid my life of the parasites that are the Gambino family.