Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Uncle Frank calls me in the morning, asking if we can meet earlier. He sounds amped-up. I guess he’s been up all night and wants to sleep for the rest of the day, so he’s getting our catch-up out of the way early. I agree, but it means I’ll have to miss my morning ritual at The Celtic Crust. After my lapse last night, maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t know if I’d be able to keep my hands off Lucy.
I drive to Uncle Frank’s estate. The guards wave me through, and I meet Frank on the back porch. It’s cool out here, the ground frosted, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he puffs on his cigarette. His pupils are as wide as saucers.
“Nephew, dear boy,” he says in his classically over-the-top way, standing and clapping me on the arm. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a coffee.”
“I meant a proper drink.”
I almost point out that it’s not even nine AM, but even being the mafia prince has limits. “No, thank you, uncle.”
He shrugs, then calls into the kitchen. “Giles, a coffee for my upstanding nephew.” He stubs his cigarette out and then immediately lights another one, offering me one from the pack. When I shake my head, he laughs gruffly. “Do you have any vices, Killian?”
“Some people say I work too much,” I reply.
“That’s not a vice. That’s a compliment you give yourself while pretending to be humble. It makes men uncomfortable, being so… good. Especially in our line of work.”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?” I ask.
“It’s good for the men to see you visiting, Killian, you know that,” he says. “There was a time when they whispered about the ‘kill’ in your name. But that was before you took the honorable path.”
“The Family seems to run fine without me,” I say.
“I work hard,” Uncle Frank says proudly, sitting up.
It’s difficult not to laugh at this. Without his consigliere, Owen, I would’ve had to fight for power a long time ago.
“How are things in your line of business?” he asks.
“I can’t complain,” I say.
“It’s a curious thing to have… how many restaurants is it now?”
“Seven,” I tell him.
“And all of them are successful.”
“Some more than others, but broadly speaking, yes.”
“Yet you haven’t brought us into the fold.”
“I want to keep the restaurants separate from the mob,” I tell him. “I’ve been clear about that from the start.”
“You also don’t want to be involved with the Family,” Uncle Frank says, leaning forward and looking at me with watery eyes. “There’s a curious contradiction there… if you’re not part of the Family, how do you suppose you’d stop us if we made a move?”
“Don’t get it confused, uncle,” I growl. “I’m not involved in the mob, but there’s still a Family man inside of me. If you push too hard, you’re liable to wake him up.”
He chuckles. “Relax, Killian. It’s all in good fun.”
I don’t miss the emphasis he puts on ‘kill’.
“It’s the anniversary of Father’s death soon,” I say, watching Uncle Frank closely. “Have you given any thought to what we might do?”
Uncle Frank sighs. “Poor Patrick. It was such a tragedy. I’m sure we’ll have a memorial to honor him.”
“I’ve been thinking about his accident,” I murmur. “Dad was always such a skillful driver, no matter how tired he was. And that car was brand new. It’s strange the brakes weren’t able to stop him.”
Uncle Frank narrows his eyes. “Is there something you want to say?” he snaps. “Are you trying to imply something?”
“Excuse me, uncle?” I feign ignorance.
“Don’t give me that. That’s the sort of talk a man starts with when he wants to seize power. The brakes. Patrick’s death was an accident. Everybody has agreed to that for years. And now you’re starting with this crap? What’s your angle?”
Talk about defensive… “No angle. I was just making a comment. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
He clenches his jaw, looking like a scared little boy who’s concerned he’s gone too far. “Uh, sure.”
I walk into the house to Uncle Frank’s office, slip inside, and quickly search it. If he catches me now, it’ll be bad, but it’s a risk I have to take. I open and close drawers, check the cabinet, move aside folders…
Motherfucker.
The ring slips out of an envelope hidden in the back of a drawer. It’s got a smear of blood on it. It’s my father’s ring, the chunky gold one I remember being on his pinky every single day he was alive. The blood on it – he was wearing it during the crash. Did Uncle Frank keep it as a sick souvenir?
I take a photo on my cellphone and then replace it. If I take it now, Frank will know, and it’ll mean war. No matter how hard I try, it seems the mafia world is determined to drag me back in. I can’t think of a reason he’d have this ring except as a memento of what he did.