Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
I park the truck outside of the apartment building near the lake. It’s a quiet morning, almost nice out. The mugginess of the night before is blowing away, replaced by a dry heat. The sun’s out and it glitters off the lake as choppy waves lap at the docks. I sit in my truck for a few minutes before I get out and head inside, doing my best to pretend like I’m trying not to be seen while also making sure that I’m seen. My door’s still locked and the bolt slides shut with a thud.
I set myself up and start waiting.
Santoro has to know about my feud with Dad. And because Santoro is a clever and ruthless fucking bastard, he’s going to take advantage of the situation. My guess is he starts trying to chip away at our territory, maybe gets aggressive and burns down a few of our associated businesses, maybe tries to make all our clients nervous. He’ll find the weak points in our castle and start breaking it down with a crow bar, chunk by chunk.
I don’t know how he’s still alive after what happened. It still haunts me, even to this day. Davide was just a damn kid, but he was all burned to shit and a broken shell of a person after Santoro kidnapped him when we were all little. And somehow Dad let Santoro escape to Canada, and then he let Santoro build a new crime empire across the border, and then he let the fucker come back to Chicago, and now we’re letting him take up space in our city.
None of it makes sense. I don’t know why Dad’s been incapable of taking down his old friend all these years. Santoro committed the greatest crime a member of any Famiglia could commit and betrayed the people he was sworn to protect. But it’s even worse than that—Santoro was like an uncle to all of us. Davide’s so fucked up and traumatized that he still calls the guy Uncle Santoro, even though we all know how gross and bizarre that is, but it’s like a compulsion for him, he can’t stop it. Santoro is a deep wound in our family, a festering sore that won’t heal.
I want him dead. And that won’t happen anytime soon. Not until I’m the Don.
My resolve hardens as I keep waiting. I’m alone in my safehouse apartment for a few hours until I hear the footsteps in the hallway. I don’t need to check my gun, but I do it anyway. I’m in position and completely ready when the lock rattles then the door smashes inward.
Two men burst through. I kill them instantly, bullets ripping into their bodies as they drop down. I’m crouched behind the couch, using it as cover, and a third guy comes through with his weapon raised and his eyes wild, and I kill him too. It happens fast—one second, they’re alive and coming to take me down, and the next, they’re hunks of meat.
I don’t wait for more. I’m up and moving, getting a new angle so I can see into the hall. I spot two more out there, both of them whispering at each other, trying to figure out what the hell to do. They thought they’d ambush me; instead, I set a trap.
“You two have a choice,” I call out. “Stay in the hall and die when my brother comes up those stairs, or throw down your weapons and surrender.”
There’s more whispering. I’m not sure if they’ll buy my bluff, but Davide’s got a reputation in this town and I’m hoping they’re more afraid of him than they are of me.
“What happens if we surrender?” one of the guys yells out. He’s got a good voice, a nice rich baritone.
“I ask you questions. You answer them honestly and you both get to live. You lie and you both get to die. Pretty simple stuff.”
More whispers. I’m pretty sure they’re going to fight this one out, which will be a huge pain in my ass, when a gun suddenly skitters across the floor, followed by another.
“We’re unarmed,” the baritone man says. “And now we’re coming in.”
A big bastard enters the doorway. He’s got his hands behind his head. His eyes flick to the four corpses of his former pals lying on the floor in a big, spreading pool of blood and bullet-addled viscera. The last remaining thug comes in next, shorter and slimmer than his baritone leader, and trembling.
“Kneel,” I order, rising from my hiding spot. They stare at me and slowly drop down. I walk a ring around them to make sure there aren’t any weapons in easy reach then I do a quick pat down. They’re both clean. Baritone smells like shaving cream and the other has the gross reek of an animal terrified of dying.