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)
Five more miles to the cabin. Just five more miles. What's the point of stoppin' now when I'm almost there anyway?
How many Hail Marys for kidnappin' your best friend's naked woman and killin' her on the ride to rescue?
This actually makes me scoff.
Rescue? Rescue, Lorcan? Ya fancy yourself a hero, do ya? Well, now you've got a dead woman in the boot for yer troubles.
This is what I get for stickin' my fuckin' nose into other people's business. Why? Why do I always insist on fucking savin' people?
It's in your nature, boy…
Fuck off, Father Patrick. No one asked ya.
But he doesn't fuck off. He never fucks off.
He's been in my head for eleven fuckin' years now.
But none of that is the point. The point is Giovanni. The point is the naked woman hauntin' his halls like a ghost of dog stories past.
Giovanni did it again.
He did it. Again.
He lied—straight to my face, the bastard.
He promised he'd never collar another woman—not after what happened before. He looked me dead in the eye and he gave me his word.
His word.
As if that meant somethin' comin' from a man who'd already proven words were just sounds you made to get what you wanted.
You're one to talk, aren't ya lad.
"Ah, shut up, ya old fuck," I mutter aloud to the ghost of Father Patrick who lives rent-free in my conscience. "I'm nothin' like him."
Although… I do have to admit, in the quiet darkness of this car with a possibly-dead woman in the boot, that Giovanni and I are alike in a lot of other ways. Too many ways, if I'm bein' honest with myself—which I try very hard not to be on most days.
For excellent reasons.
Mob family upbringin'—his is old-school Italian, all fire, and opera, and passionate violence.
Mine's old-school Irish, all stone, and saga, and cold, patient fury. Different flavors of the same poison, really.
Same body count, different accents.
We both like suits. Though mine are less flashy than his. Less Brioni, more Hunter Treacy. His suits exist to intimidate, mine to understate. Same armor, different message.
We went to the same school. Fucking Auggies. Virtue through Order. Greatest lie ever sold to the sons of rich criminals.
We both see patterns where other people see chaos. We both prefer silence to noise. We both understand that power isn't about volume—it's about precision. About knowin' exactly when to speak and when to let the quiet do the work for ya.
The difference is he uses it for empire.
I use it to overthink myself into moral paralysis.
We both got trauma we pretend doesn't exist.
We both use control as a coping mechanism.
Mine's just dressed up as philosophy.
And… most disturbing of all, we both fancy the same kind of woman.
The proof is in my boot. Possibly dead proof. Brilliant.
Christ.
Again, how the fuck did I get here?
Well, Lorcan, mah boy, if yer lookin' for someone to blame, it was yer Uncle Fearghus.
Fuckin' Fearghus.
Do this favor for me, Lorcan my lad. Got the LaRiccia's on my case and we both know how testy I get when those goddamn pricks start breathin' down my neck.
It wasn't a request.
Everyone knows Giovanni and I have history. Oh, not that kind of history. Christ, the rumors people invent. The only two people in this world who know about the dog we buried that winter, is us.
Yer forgettin' the dead girl, Lorcan. She knows too.
"She don't count, ya fat bastard. She's dead."
The point is, Giovanni and I go way back. We've got the kind of history that sticks. The kind you can't shake even when you want to.
The LaRiccia's called in a favor that was very specific. Break in to Giovanni's estate, snoop around, find us evidence that he killed, kidnapped, did something nefarious to our faggot heir, Rico… and report back.
Of course, the secret blood-oath I have with Giovanni means I don't turn him in, he don't turn me in, and life is good, and easy, and peaceful between us.
So I told fuckin' Fearghus, no problem. Because if the LaRiccia's are lookin' for something to take down Giovanni, and I have the opportunity to intervene on his behalf, then I am obligated to.
That's just… how it works.
So iI thought… in and out. Thirty minutes, tops. Find nothin' suspicious, or find somethin' and make it disappear, then report back to LaRiccia that his son's disappearance has nothin' to do with the Bavgas.
Protect Giovanni from a mob war he might not even know is brewin'.
Keep the peace. Keep my friend alive.
Simple.
Textbook, really.
Except nothin's ever simple, is it? Not for me. Not when pattern-seekers start connectin' dots they shouldn't.
She was comin' out of the library clutching a book to her chest, weird smile on her face.
Except, I wasn't really lookin' at her face. Or the book. I was lookin' at her tits. Because let's face it, when you literally bump into a naked hot woman wearin' nothin' but a collar, ya look.