Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
"Do something," I demanded, barely holding back a laugh at the look of horror on Emilio's face.
"I think I'm owed hazard pay for having to dispose of something with that crazy bastard."
"You got it," I agreed, nodding my head.
"Go clean up fully. We got this. Then get your girl out."
"She's not my girl," I insisted, shaking my head.
To that, Emilio moved into the doorway, looking at Paulie's mutilated body, then back at me.
"You sure about that?"
"Oh, man," Brio interrupted. "He didn't cut your tongue out? Shit, man. That would have been my first move. Harder to scream when you're choking on your blood, y'know? Missed opportunity, there."
"Yeah," I said to Emilio, trying to block out Brio's insane ramblings. "This was business. He made the family look bad. Got away with it for years. It's not personal."
"Aw shit, little boss man," Brio said, standing upright, facing me. "Even I know this shit is personal. I mean, where is his cock? Oh, wait, shit, is that it?" he asked, pointing. "I thought it was a finger. Damn. No wonder he was such an asshole, packing that pencil dick. But yeah, boss man, me? I do this shit. You? You don't do this shit. So you doing this shit, that's personal. Own that shit."
With that, he turned his focus back to Paulie.
"Keep an eye on him," I told Emilio quietly.
"You have no worries with this," he told me, shrugging. "We know what we're doing. Go handle the rest of this, so we can all get some much-needed rest."
With that, I did, heading home for a quick shower and change after checking with Chris to make sure no one had tried to come and relieve him of his duties.
Luckily, everyone was working on laying the new floor, and had forgotten about the woman in the basement.
Which was good.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and made my way back to the brownstone, taking a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever might come my way.
Or so I thought.
"Where the fuck have you been?" my father asked when I made my way in through the house, glancing over at the new flooring that was carefully being put into place by men who were not qualified to do so, their suits getting rubbed bare in the knees from crawling around, their fucking gold jewelry dangling. It was a sight. If I were less tired and stressed, I'd have had a good chuckle over it. "I was just going to talk to our guest about her actions last night," he added, already reaching for the door to the basement, making his way down.
He might have always had a poor tolerance for liquor, but the bastard rarely dealt with hangovers. Which made him a lot more on his game than I was currently feeling.
I had to shake it off.
This was the most important part.
The only part that mattered.
I didn't even trip over that thought like I knew I would have just a week or so before.
Because back then, it was saving the family's face that was most important, making sure the other families—especially the Espositos and the Lombardis—had no reason to try to make a power move, take over the top family position.
I didn't know when that stopped being the main motivator.
Fuck.
Sure I did.
It started right there in my closet. Right before I even put my hands on her. When I felt a tug somewhere inside, something new and interesting and, yeah, fucking terrifying, if I were honest.
There had been hints of affection before then, having appreciated her attitude and fighting spirit right from the jump, but in that closet, when she showed me something soft under all that hard, that was when the change started.
It had only continued to grow since then.
I just didn't realize how big it had gotten until the night before. When, for the first time, I was genuinely worried I wouldn't be able to get her out of this mess.
Right then, panic had gripped me, a tight sensation in my chest and throat, a sloshing in my stomach.
It was then that I knew I would move hell and earth to get her free, to get her justice. And to give us a real shot at something.
Not as debtor and collector.
Not as a kidnapper and hostage.
Just as a man and a woman.
I wanted to give that a shot.
I had a feeling there was something there.
A future.
But to have that, I had to fix the present.
And, I reminded myself as I gave Chris a nod, watching as he moved out of the way, the present was far from fixed.
But we were close.
So close.
Or so I thought.
My father opened the door to the unfinished side of the basement, and I could hear the rattle of the chain as a half-dozing Giana jolted awake, eyes swollen, but from exhaustion, not tears.