Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
His stare lingered for a moment longer, and I saw a hint of Francesca in the stare, in the stubbornness. “You were right.”
I smirked then looked ahead. “Damn right I was right.”
“How did you do it?”
“I’ve done a lot of favors for a lot of people. And favors are the only debt I collect. Asked my little friend to change out their guns for faulty ones before the meeting. And then I grabbed Dante myself and loaded him into one of their shipments.”
“Why were you so certain Luigi would move this way?”
“Because assholes like him are all the same.” Always thought they had a brilliance that reinvented the wheel. Thought they were five steps ahead of their money, when they were three steps behind. I stared out the window and saw the empty road ahead of us, the world still asleep. “Think about it. He stole your guns once before. You didn’t figure it out, so he did it again. The first time, he was testing you. Made his assumption about your abilities at that point and made his decision to move against you. He wasn’t going to change his mind just because you found the guns the second time. That’s how people are. First impressions matter. First decisions matter too.”
“You didn’t think it was harsh to take his son as collateral?”
I turned to look at Don Mancini. “Did you think it was harsh when he put a gun to your son’s head?”
“Leo chooses to be here. Dante has chosen to remove himself from this life. They are not the same.”
I looked ahead again. “I feel nothing. I earned the name Wolfe from Cosa Nostra years ago because I know how to hunt. I know how to find anyone who doesn’t want to be found. One of my assignments was an asshole who betrayed Cosa Nostra twenty years ago. Changed his name a couple times and disappeared off the map—but you know where he ended up? A priest in the Vatican, hiding behind the cross around his neck.”
“Did you kill him?”
I smirked. “What do you think?”
Don Mancini stared at me for a long time.
“Maybe one day, I’ll tell you, Don. But not today.”
When we arrived at the winery, it was early morning.
Francesca was there, ready to treat the wounds we were bound to have.
But Leo was the only one who had any bruising, and the only thing that would fix that was time.
Don Mancini left the vehicle then walked toward the front of the house. He looked over his shoulder and motioned for me to follow him.
I came to his side, and together, we walked up the stairs.
Francesca stood there, her eyes on me longer than they probably should have been. The relief on her beautiful face, like she might burst into tears, was a look I’d never forget. She swallowed then shifted her gaze to her father. “You’re okay?”
“We’re all well, Frankie.” He stopped to give her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead.
I was a little bit jealous. That he could touch her and kiss her, and I couldn’t do a damn thing except stare at her.
Don Mancini continued forward, and when I passed Francesca, I gently brushed my hand against hers, the touch of our fingertips enough to light my veins on fire. I proceeded into the house, to the third story, where his office was located.
We gathered inside, Leo and Elio joining us on the couches. I could tell by the clouds in the sky that it was about to rain. It was forecast to pour all day and all night. Perfect weather to lie in bed with Francesca for hours.
Don Mancini leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, and he looked at me where I sat in the armchair. “I don’t agree with the way you handled the situation tonight, but I’m grateful for your intervention. Lombardi’s words have sunken into my flesh and been absorbed in my bone marrow…and I start to wonder if he’s right. That perhaps I’m living in the past, honoring a code that doesn’t exist anymore, and if I don’t adapt, there will be other Lombardis who want my head in the future.”
There would be.
“I want peace. But perhaps peace is a figment of my imagination.”
“Oh, it definitely exists,” I said. “But people misinterpret what peace really is.” My hands came together, and I massaged my knuckles. “History is written by the victors. Peace is determined by the tyrants. Peace and power are one and the same. One cannot exist without the other. Whoever controls the power controls the peace. Maintain your power and run the show—and you can have all the damn peace that you want. But you must be a tyrant to accomplish that. Otherwise, you’ll have to submit to someone else, tolerate whatever temperature they prefer to set the thermostat. The Skull King is monopolizing the drug business, so instead of fighting him, they’re choosing to dominate you instead. We need to prove how grave a mistake that is. And Luigi is our first example.”