Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Achilles prowled our way and sank onto a seat in front of me, placing his gun on the table.
“Enzo,” he clipped out. “Upstairs.”
The youngest brother glanced between his siblings.
“Why?” He scowled. “I’m the enforcer now. I’m good for i—”
“I’m the underboss you report to, and I’m telling you to get the fuck out.” Luca snapped his ledger shut. “You can do it voluntarily or with a second asshole the shape of a bullet. Your call.”
“Dude, you pulling rank on me right now?” Enzo frothed. “This is bullshit. How am I supposed to learn the craft—”
“Do I look like fucking Georgetown?” Achilles turned to Luca, motioning toward his scarred face.
“No,” Luca said flatly.
Achilles turned to Enzo. “Bye, little shit.”
“Vai a farti fottere!” Enzo stomped his way out in a cloud of juvenile fury. He was surprisingly golden retriever-ish for a mobster. Luca reminded me of a stray. Achilles of a rabies-infected coyote.
Finally, I had both Luca’s and Achilles’s attention. Somewhere in the back of my head, I realized conducting business with a dead body in the room wasn’t normal, but I concluded long ago I was anything but sane.
“Tell me where you’re at with our project.” I rapped my knuckles on the table.
“Which one?” Achilles asked. “Dementia lady or your father’s killers?”
“Hospital.”
My father’s murderers could wait. After Boyle, they knew I was coming for them. Living in fear was far worse than being dead. I learned that from experience.
“There’s no space at the trial.” Luca cracked his knuckles. “Not only is the program at full capacity, but the waiting list is a mile long. Since we can’t go around killing dozens of innocent people, we have to get creative. Paint a picture.”
“Elaborate, Dick-asso,” I ground out.
“We’ll hack the database software harboring the waiting list and put your candidate at the top of it,” Achilles explained. “Luca has studied the criteria they’re looking for. We found a neurologist to forge the desired test results—they’ll call him before offering your candidate a spot. Then, we’ll relieve one actively treated patient of their life. Your mysterious dementia patient will be their first call.” The mobster loosened his shoulder holster, dumping it on the table between us. Tattoos snaked up and down his forearms, his chest and neck, up to his jawline.
“So what’s the holdup?” I demanded.
“Research. We needed to look into each participating patient to see which one we should off.” He grabbed a bottle of Cutty Sark, pouring himself a glass. “We have an IT guy on retainer, but we’ll see if accessing a government’s healthcare website and tampering with its records is above his pay grade. I’m sure there’ll be more fees to come, so get your Bitcoin ready.”
A knock sounded from the door.
“Come in,” Luca instructed.
A beefy, tan soldier walked into the basement. He wore a sharp suit and a determined expression. He handed Luca and Achilles papers.
“Bingo. The reports of the participants came in.” Luca tapped the documents with his cigarette. Both brothers scanned the papers silently.
“Susan Bosshardt owes four hundred K to Frankie Ricci.” Luca stroked his chin. “A local loan shark who pays us a cut. We can ask him for a favor. Less paper trail.”
“Christian Sainz had three heart attacks and a stroke this year alone,” Achilles countered. “He’s a better candidate, if he hasn’t died already by the time I finished this sentence.”
The brothers looked between them, then at me.
I stood up, buttoning my coat with one hand.
“I really don’t give a fuck which of these assholes gets wiped out. All I care is that by tomorrow morning, you call me with good news about this trial experiment. Am I clear?”
Achilles saluted me with his middle finger.
Luca poured himself another drink.
I walked out before the stench of the newly dead corpse of a dirty pimp seeped into my nose.
One week later
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the Bentley, closing my eyes and drawing a deep breath.
It was happening.
My wishes were coming true.
Mum was here with me, about to check into Northeastern General Hospital for the dementia treatment program.
I didn’t know how Tate made it happen, and I preferred not to ask. Knowing would consume me with guilt.
“Hey, you.” I squeezed her hand in mine, ripping my gaze from the window. I no longer called her Mum. It triggered her, since she didn’t recognize me. “How’re you feeling?”
My mother stared out the window, appearing to be lost in her own thoughts. I gently rubbed the inside of her pale palm, which seemed to snap her back into reality. She turned to look at me, face blank and puzzled.
“Oh, it’s you again. You seem to be everywhere these days, don’t you, Georgia?” A lax smile stretched across her lips.
Gia, Mum. My name is Gia.
My heart shriveled and curled inside my chest like a kicked puppy.
My mother was a striking woman who took a lot of pride in her looks. She used to wear silky, colorful dresses and handmade earrings and an eternal, dazzling smile. Her makeup was bold and her perfumes heady.