Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Want to continue that sentence? Pretty sure Pops wouldn’t appreciate it.”
I sigh because he’s right. My uncle loves me in his own way, but he’d also not lose a minute of sleep if he killed me. At this point, the only reason he doesn’t is because of his son. Matteo considers me a brother, so for now . . . I’m safe.
“Get off my dick, cuz. I already know who I’m killing, so make it quick.”
“Jesus Christ.” Matteo laughs into the receiver. “You’ve become quite unhinged in your old age.”
“You called to compliment me?”
“I’m actually calling because I saw an interesting article in the paper.” His voice softens just a fraction.
I stare at a distant wall. “You mean the one about the Danforths? Yeah. I saw it.”
Matteo exhales sharply. “You good?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, sarcasm dripping like venom. “Fantastic. Thinking about sending her a fruit basket. Maybe with a note that says, ‘Congrats on the engagement, make sure to have a bomb squad at your wedding.’ Or maybe something like, ‘Can’t wait to make you a widow.’”
He laughs hard, and then the sound stops abruptly. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Maybe. If she’s lucky.”
“You’ve really turned into an angry bastard.”
“Life will do that to you.”
“Life,” he repeats. “Or a girl?”
My smile goes dark. “Don’t worry. I’m currently sharpening my knives. I might as well put this sadistic energy to good use.”
Matteo whistles low. “I remember the boy who got into the car all those years ago. Sweet. Ridiculous. Terrible at lying.”
“He died.”
“You . . . okay?”
“Define okay.” I lean back in my chair. “Because right now I’m hovering somewhere between ‘burn down their empire’ and ‘send Grant a sympathy card for what’s about to happen to him.’”
Matteo snorts. “You know, you always had a mean streak. But this? This is art.”
“Thank you. I take pride in my growth.”
“And your violence.”
“And my violence.”
He hums. “Listen, don’t do anything stupid, okay? Pops would be pissed, and you don’t want to fuck up anything—”
“Sure. No problem. Wouldn’t dream of doing anything,” I lie through my teeth. Of course, I’m going to do something, but the something I’m going to do . . . he and his father will never know about because they’ll never approve.
“Good talk.” Matteo laughs.
I hang up, letting the silence settle again. Except now, it’s not hollow. It’s sharp.
Alive.
My blood is steady. Focused. I have a purpose. And the purpose . . .
Well, obviously, I’m going to burn down her world—piece by piece.
If she wanted a war, she should’ve picked someone weaker.
Because now?
This is personal.
And I don’t lose.
Ever.
23
Lorenzo
The screaming gets annoying after the second hour.
Not the volume . . . I don’t mind that. It’s the tone. Fuck, this guy is whiny. Too many “please” and not enough “I’m sorry for stealing.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose as the sound bounces around the warehouse, ricocheting off rusted beams and oil-stained concrete.
“Jesus.” I lean back in the metal chair I dragged from the corner. “Do you have to scream like that? I’m honestly embarrassed for you. You sound like a feral cat.”
The man tied to the post is in his mid-forties, stocky with greasy hair plastered to his forehead.
He gasps, and it sounds wet. Maybe he’s choking on his own vomit?
Can’t have that happen. I need to torture him for a lot longer before I put him out of his misery. If he dies now, his punishment will feel weak. I mean, sure, he’ll be dead, but Uncle will demand his pound of flesh.
His right eye is swollen shut, and his lip hangs open. He’s missing a tooth I knocked out forty minutes ago.
“You—you’re insane,” he chokes.
I brighten. “See, that’s a compliment. Much better than the crying. Good job. Gold star.” I pat his cheek with the back of my fingers. The same hand still holding the pair of pliers.
He flinches like I slapped him.
“Relax.” I sigh, twirling the pliers and making a real show of how unhinged I am. “I’m pacing myself. Torture is an art form. Like tasting a fine wine. You don’t just chug it down. You savor it.”
“Please—”
“There it is.” I groan very dramatically. All part of the show. “We’re making progress.” I stand, stretching my arms overhead until my spine cracks. Time to get back to work.
Today’s victim, let’s call him Travis because he looks like a Travis, works for Danforth Steel. Middle management. Probably has a wife who hates him, kids who ignore him, and a drinking problem that gave him courage he absolutely did not deserve.
Unfortunately for him, that courage led him to agree to sell insider info to Rafe, only to back out at the last minute because he “got scared.”
Bad move, fella. I have no patience. And I’m definitely in the wrong fucking mood for this bullshit.
I walk around him. “I’ll be honest, Travis”—I tap the pliers against my palm—“I’m in a terrible mood today. Someone pissed me off.” I bend down so we’re eye level. “And when I’m pissed off, I get . . . creative.”