Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
"Yeah," I say into the receiver, my voice rough.
"Listen, G," Lorcan says, and I can hear the shift in his tone immediately. He's calmer now, the manic edge from earlier smoothed away into something steadier, more deliberate. His accent, which had been thick and nearly incomprehensible when he was spiraling, has settled into something easier to parse. "I've got an entire team of deepfake guys. Not on the payroll, mind you—it's just… shit we do on the side. Creative problem-solving, if you will."
I blink. "You cover up murders with deepfakes."
There's a pause, and I can practically hear the smirk spreading across his face three hundred miles away. "I can neither confirm nor deny that allegation," he says, his voice dripping with false solemnity, the kind of mockery you can only get away with when you're talking about felonies.
The chuckle bursts out of me before I can stop it, low and involuntary, scraping past the tightness in my throat. "I'm listening."
He proceeds to tell me how this is gonna go down.
But it's gonna take time.
"At least a week," he says.
Jino is shaking his head.
I ignore Jino.
"All right. What do I do?"
"If they're gonna send a hit," Lorcan continues, his voice steady, deliberate, "they need to be sure. And right now, Giovanni, they're not sure. They can't be. Ya've given them just enough confusion to hesitate. That hesitation buys us time."
I glance at Jino. He's still shaking his head, arms crossed, jaw locked. I turn away from him, focus on the phone.
"Meanwhile," Lorcan says, "a few days later—while they're still sittin' around some overpriced conference table in Little Italy, debatin' the viability of bringin' about your unnatural demise—I'll have my team kill deepfake Rico."
There's a pause, like he's tasting the absurdity of the plan himself.
"Footage of the 'boating accident,'" he says, almost reciting it like a script. "Write-ups in the local Bangkok papers about the degenerate American crime lord's son. Drugs, sex traffickin', reckless behavior—whole nine yards. Death certificate. Neat little bow tied around the whole mess."
"OK. Let's say I agree to this. Thank you, first of all. But none of that matters."
"What do ya mean?" Lorcan asks.
"I don't give a fuck about the damn LaRiccia Crime Family or what they might, or might not think I'm doing. You have my fucking woman, Lorcan." I'm growling now. I don't like it. It's cliche, and trite, and predictable.
But I can't stop it.
"She needs to come home.'
"Sure," Lorcan says. "If ya wanna get her killed."
"Why would she be in danger? They don't even know she exists."
"As of right now, no. They don't. But it's gonna take a week. I just told ya. And in that week, we need things to go smooth. To go to plan. What we don't need is Giovanni Bavga going nuclear over a fuckin' woman. That's just not normal, my friend. If you over react and make her the reason? Or if you bring her home and they see her? Giovanni, they're gonna do a little check on her. I don't know what they'll find, she's told me nothin' about herself. But if there's anythin' to find, they will find it. If they connect her to you, they'll use her to make a point. They don't even need to suspect she saw anything, or was the cause of anything. All they need to know is that you care."
He's not wrong. I look at Jino. "What do you think?"
He's pissed. "She could stay at my place."
I consider this. Lorcan doesn't object, either. Which leads me to believe he's OK with it.
But if Lorcan is right—and obviously, he is. Then Jino's place isn't any safer than mine. "They'll know by now," I tell Jino, "that we've been spending a lot of time together. If they see you with Emmaleen?" I shake my head. "It won't work. She stays with Lorcan."
Lorcan lets out a rough exhale. "She's a mess. A complete fuckin' mess, Giovanni. I don't know if I can…" He trails off, and when his voice comes back, it's softer, more ragged around the edges. "I don't live the lifestyle anymore, brother. I really don't. Haven't in a couple of years. I've weaned myself off it, I swear I have. But it took me a long damn time to get here, to claw my way out of that headspace. I don't think I'm the man for this, ya know? I'm not him anymore. I can't help her navigate through that kind of wreckage. Not like that. Not the way she'd need."
"Then who the hell else is there?" I ask, because I don't doubt a single word coming out of his mouth. If Lorcan Ó Fearghail says he's standing on the edge of something dangerous, I believe him without question. That's precisely why I have my fucking cousin camping out in my guest room, babysitting me and the woman I've turned into my personal sex slave.