Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
“You’re lucky you’re the youngest, Ryder.” He points a fork at me. “By the time you’re old enough to handle the business, I’ll be too tired to stay on your ass all the time.”
Everyone laughs, and my aunt squeezes my shoulder, lowering her voice. “Don’t bet on that.”
“I’m not, Aunt Hilda.”
“Ryder, can you grab some more parmesan shells from the kitchen for me?” my mom calls out. “Get me at least twenty.”
“Yes, Mama.” I slide out of my chair and rush into the prep kitchen, pushing aside trays in search of the shells near the wine rack.
Finding them, I start to stack and then—
Bang! Boom! Bang! Boom!
The sound of gunshots roars through the air in quick succession. Plates and glasses shatter to the floor. Screams follow—ragged, unfiltered screams that don’t sound real until they suddenly do.
My ears ring from the first blast. My feet don’t move fast enough. I can’t even think, just react.
Panicking, I place the tray on the counter and rush behind the wine rack where the hidden panel is. I shove it open and slip inside the estate’s small safe room, pushing the hatch closed behind me just as heavy boots hit the tile.
The gunshots keep coming in a violent rhythm, almost like a symphony. I press both hands over my mouth to keep myself from making a sound.
“One of you check the kitchen,” a deep voice says. “The rest of you spread out and check every room. I don’t want to leave any roots of the Rochester tree alive.”
I still as best I can, unable to stop the tears falling down my face.
Footsteps enter the kitchen. They draw closer. I hear someone shift trays, move containers.
“Parmesan shells,” one of them says. “I heard Mama Rochester made the best filling for these.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve asked her to make you one before blowing off her head,” another man replies, laughing.
“Good point. I’ll go check the outside.”
“No, stay here. Check the bodies. Make sure they’re dead.”
“Will do, Boss.”
I don’t know how long I stay frozen in the safe room, but I know the killers don’t leave my family’s estate for at least four days. They take advantage of the pool and the spa, of the theater room and the gardens. They convene in the kitchen every afternoon, checking in on their “work,” joking that they’ll need to leave sooner or later before the bodies begin to smell.
There’s no room to sit. My spine throbs from standing. My breath fogs the cold steel. Sleep comes in seconds and never stays. Every time I close my eyes, I see my brothers’ faces.
They also reveal their names—Joe, Harrison, Tyler, Trey, Otto, Neal, and Jonathan. I’m not sure if those are their real ones or aliases, but I do know that the man they work for—the man who put this all together—is Rush Banks, my father’s top enemy. A man who has been systematically trying to break apart my father’s hold on the West Coast’s underground long before I was born.
And I know now, more than ever, that I will make all of these men pay. I will make their families suffer, and I will ruin them all like they’ve so easily ruined me.
The day they finally leave, I wait a while before slipping out of the safe room.
The hallway reeks. I gag and stumble into the guest bath, vomiting into the sink. I rinse my mouth, wash my hands twice, and change clothes.
Drawers in the office have been emptied. Furniture flipped. My father’s records are gone—or at least the ones kept in plain sight.
Before making any other moves, before calling 9-1-1, I video-call our closest family friend, Chester.
“Hey there, Ryder!” he smiles. “I’m not due to pick you and your dad up for the big trip for another week, but I’m—”
“He’s dead.” I cut him off. “Him, my mom, my brothers, my aunts, and all my cousins… They’re dead.”
The smile slides off his face. “Show me.”
I walk into the dining room for the first time, showing him a massacre. Bloodstains cover the walls, the chairs coated in death.
The bodies lie where the killers left them.
I can’t bear to move any closer to see my mother and father, and thankfully, he doesn’t make me.
“I hid in the safe room,” I admit, choking on the guilt that’s been sitting in my throat for days. “Maybe I should’ve gone with them…”
“No. You did what your father would’ve wanted,” he says. “You survived.”
I don’t say anything right away. There’s blood on my hands, and not just figuratively. I don’t feel like a leader. I feel like a boy who hid in a metal box while his family died—while the smell of pasta and blood fought for space in the air.
“Should I call 9-1-1 now?”
“What exactly would they be helping with?”
I hold back a sigh.
“I’m on my way, but you need to call in the syndicate from New York and Miami,” he says. “Tell them you have a cleanup job, and that there’s no need for them to submit their talents to work under Rush Banks.”