Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“I’m on my way,” I tell him.
This kind of thing demands a personal touch. The kid in question was blabbing his mouth about the ins and outs of my mansion, describing where all the bedrooms were and how easy it would be to put me in my grave. I can’t let that kind of thing go unanswered.
“I wanna know who this kid is and how he got into the house,” I demand, storming through the hallway and out onto the porch.
“Right boss,” Vinnie says.
“Edoardo, you’re with me,” I snap.
The driver brings my car around, and I hop in the backseat, Edoardo sliding in next to me. Marcello comes down with a look on his face.
“Do you need some help, boss?” he asks.
“I got this,” I tell him.
“What should I tell Giovanni?” Marcello wonders.
“Nothing,” I reply. “I’m handling it.”
The car drives off, leaving Marcello in the driveway. I don’t have time to think about him right now. I want all the information I can get about this kid who’s running his mouth. There are many people who come and go from the house every day. I’d like to meet them all, the same as I did with Marlena, but occasionally that just doesn’t happen.
When there’s a group of soldiers or some event like a party going on, I don’t always know who’s in my home. That bothers me. I’ll have to have a talk with Edoardo and Marcello when all this is done. I want to crack down on strangers walking through the house unannounced. I don’t care who they’re with or whether they’re vetted or not. If I don’t know them, I don’t want them walking through the door.
Vinnie’s got this guy locked down at a local casino. It’s one of my joints, which is double egregious. The kid was throwing his weight around in my own place. How dumb could you get? That’s one of the things I appreciate about the lowlife scum I have to deal with all the time: most of them aren’t too bright. It makes keeping people in line somewhat easier. At least I’m not dealing with criminal masterminds.
We pull up outside the casino, and the valet comes running. He stops short when he sees who it is. My driver gives him the signal, and he goes back to his post. The car will wait for us until we’re ready to go. Just in case we need a quick getaway, I make it clear that I’m not handing the keys over to some prepubescent parking lot attendant.
Edoardo gets out of the car, and I follow. I button up my shirt as I make my entrance. I’m not wearing a tie, but the place is classy and demands a certain amount of decorum. I have to walk through the gambling floor to get to the door in the back. Everything seems to be business as usual. It’s late in the afternoon, and already the slots are starting to fill. I spot a few regular gamblers and a few guys at the bar who’ve had enough already.
I make eye contact with the bartender, and he nods toward one of the drunks. I give Edoardo a signal, and he signals to one of the bouncers. As I disappear into the employees-only hallway, I can see two security guards converging on the unlucky man.
I pass the kitchen, Edoardo at my heels. We turn left and then right until we reach the very back, where the meat locker is. I push my way through into the bedroom-sized refrigerator, to the far end where there’s another door.
This is where we do any kind of private business. The meat locker serves as a sound barrier, so that people inside can scream all they want without calling attention to us. Plenty of wet work has gone on in this hidden room, both with and without my direct supervision.
Pushing past the meat locker, I find myself in the hidden room. It’s slightly warmer, which is appreciated. Sometimes I have to spend hours picking people apart for information, and I prefer to do it in relative comfort.
The kid in question is strapped to a chair. Two of my men are standing over him, and no one’s speaking. The kid knows that he’s in trouble, and I can see that he’s on the verge of pissing his pants. His knees are shaking, and his eyes are wide as saucers.
“Hello,” I say politely.
“Hello, Mr. Corello,” the kid gulps.
“I hear you’re saying some pretty interesting things about me.”
“No, I would never,” he swears. “Honest, I was just running my mouth. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“My men tell me that you’ve been inside my home,” I remind him.
“Just the once,” he whispers. “I didn’t even really get a good look.”
I crouched down next to him, putting one hand on his knee. “When did you have occasion to be in my home?”