Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
The priest approaches, his Bible across his hands, his white cloak dragging the dirt. I zone out while he bumbles on about The Lord, Jesus Christ, and how my father is at peace. I want to be at peace. I want the turmoil within me to fuck off. His coffin is lowered into the dark pit, and I move in closer to the edge, pulling out his ring from my pocket. I kiss it before dropping it to the wood. “Rest in peace, Mister,” I whisper, tossing the priest a bundle of notes before turning and striding away.
The second I fall into the seat of my car, I pull the hip flask from my inside pocket and guzzle half, watching as the men shovel dirt into the hole in the ground. And I don’t leave until they’re done.
As I drive slowly up the lane toward the main road, I dial Brad, ignoring the endless missed calls from Uncle Ernie.
“Anything untoward?” I say as soon as he answers.
“You mean other than hundreds of people mourning a coffin full of bricks?”
“Yes,” I answer shortly, my mood not interested in jokes.
“The son of Carlo Black was missing from his funeral. The whispers could be heard for miles.” I hear footsteps, and then a car door slamming. “Your uncle Ernie knows something isn’t right. He knows you wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’ll deal with Ernie. Anything else?”
“You mean anyone here to kill you?” He laughs lightly. “I doubt they’d be coming out of their hiding place to ask where the fuck you are.” The engine starts and more car doors close, my men joining Brad. “We’ve had our eyes open. Nothing obvious. Spittle was here, too, asking after you.”
“Spittle has a fucking death wish.” I turn onto the main road and put my foot down. “I’ll see you back at the house.” I hang up and turn on the radio, shaking my head in wonder when one of my father’s favorite tracks invades my hearing. Otis Redding sings Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay. I join him, cocking my elbow on the window and relaxing back in my seat.
* * *
New gates are being installed when I pull up, the new wall built, the cement still wet. The workmen move aside, letting me through, and I breathe out my relief as I roll up the driveway and park.
As I’m walking around the path toward the back, the quickest route to my office, I glance up, seeing Rose standing on her terrace, just meters away from the mangled remains of my own balcony. She’s wrapped in a towel, her wet hair piled high, her hands braced on the metal railings. Watching me. I rip my eyes away and enter the house via the garden door in the drawing room, walking through to the corridor that leads to my office. I see Esther up ahead, a bale of towels piled in her hands. “Go tell Rose to get off that terrace,” I snap, wondering why I’m bothering to even worry. The woman has complete disregard for her life. Why the fuck should I care?
Esther nods and leaves, and I break the threshold of my office, grabbing a bottle of Scotch and doing what I seem to be doing so well these days. I pull my tie loose, undo my top button, and drop into the chair. I open the bottom drawer and pull out a framed picture of Pops. “Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, setting it down before me and putting the bottle to my lips, glugging down more than I should while he watches me. It kills me to think that he would be disappointed in me. He’s been gone a matter of weeks, and it’s all gone to shit.
More Scotch.
* * *
By the time Brad makes it back some time later, I’ve ignored dozens of missed calls from Spittle and Uncle Ernie and worked my way through nearly an entire bottle of Scotch, the alcohol dulling my senses perfectly, my body relaxed for the first time today. He takes one look at me and sighs.
“Fuck you,” I mumble, taking another glug out of principle. “I buried my father today. I deserve a drink.”
“How’d it go?” Brad asks, putting his hand out for the bottle. I reluctantly give it up and he knocks some back.
“I could hear him cursing my arse to hell,” I admit, accepting the bottle back, liking the feeling of my mind becoming fuzzy. “What does Spittle want?” I point to my phone where the missed calls glow up at me.
“He’s got me in. I’m going to find out who this shooter is and who the fuck he works for.”
“Good.” I shove my phone back when it rings again, Uncle Ernie’s name flashing threateningly at me.
“He knows something isn’t right,” Brad says, giving me a look to suggest I’m deluded for thinking I can avoid my father’s cousin. “He’s already on his way here.” Brad only just finishes speaking when I hear a commotion from outside the office, Uncle Ernie’s booming voice sinking through the wood and telling me what to expect. My heavy eyes stare at the door, waiting for it to fly open.