Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Tonight?” I’m already thinking about Molly back home. In two more days, she’ll officially be my wife. How many late nights will she have to deal with like this? But that’s part of the life and I can’t spare her from it.
“Tonight,” Carlo confirms with a grim smile. “Or do you have something better to do?”
I glance at Dante, but he’s already on the phone and ignoring us. “You know there’s nothing more important to me than burning down Irish safe houses.”
“That’s the spirit.” Carlo walks over to the bar, fishes out a couple of beers, and throws me one. I crack it open and we toast. “If we’re lucky, we’ll have the other two fuckers in caskets before sunrise.”
“When are we ever lucky in this fucking war?”
“Good point. Let’s say by noon tomorrow then.” He sits down on a stool and faces the bar. It’s a grim portrait: blood’s splattered on the floor, everything’s wrecked and ruined, and Carlo’s sitting there like he’s enjoying a nice night out.
I join him, because why the fuck not. “We can’t keep going like this.”
“No shit. It’s draining as hell.”
“The heat’s going to get bad. We’re lucky this time, but if a civilian got killed?”
“What do you propose?”
“We have to hit them hard. Kill Finnian Lynch then make their captains come to terms. Then it’ll only be Jasha Aslanov fighting alone.”
“I bet that fucker Orsino Milano would come join our side at that point.”
I grunt in reply. The Milano Famiglia, the third biggest Italian mafia in the city, has kept out of the fighting by some minor miracle. Our only ally is Rocco Rinaldo, head of the Rinaldo Famiglia, and he’s only lending grudging support because my brother Gian is married to his daughter. Shit’s complicated.
“There has to be a way to draw Finnian out.” I hunch over my beer, shaking my head.
“You let me know if you figure it out because I’ve been trying everything. The guy’s a fucking ghost.” Carlo nudges me with his elbow. “Come on, cheer up. Dante says you got some new chick you’re fucking?”
I sit very still. “Dante said that?”
“Yeah, there was some rumor about you and a girl. I didn’t ask for details. Dante said it was no big deal. What’s her name?”
I grunt in reply, not looking at him. I don’t want to lie to my brothers if I can avoid it. Keeping Molly from them is bad enough, but actively spinning bullshit is a line I can’t cross. Although it is a little heartening to hear that Dante really did look out for me.
“Don’t worry about her,” I tell him and stand up. I drink half my beer and leave the rest on the ruined bar. “She’s just some girl.”
“Whatever you say, bro.” Carlo follows my lead. Together, we head back outside into the comfortable summer evening. Dante’s standing by the cars, still on the phone. Rossi soldiers are milling around and I pull a few aside and start giving them orders. Get the place cleaned up, deal with the body. They swarm into action, used to this sort of shit by now.
I want to go home. It’s a strange feeling. Under other circumstances, I’d be ready to roll out with my men. Hell, I might even look forward to the hunt.
Now, all I can think about is how it’ll affect Molly.
What would she do if I died tonight? We’re not married. None of my assets would be hers. And my kid? He’d grow up without a daddy.
Fucked how my world’s suddenly much more complicated.
“Saul,” Carlo calls out, standing halfway inside of a truck. “We got a tip. Some of our boys spotted the car. You coming?”
I look at him and take a deep breath. I feel myself torn in half. On the one side, there’s Molly’s husband, father of our child, and on the other, the man I’ve always been, loyal to my family and willing to do whatever it takes to further their interests.
“Coming,” I grunt at him and climb into the passenger side.
The sun’s rising when I limp back home. I stink like sweat, blood, and alcohol. Half my body’s bruised and my mouth tastes like dirt. I try to be quiet as I shuffle up the steps and into the bathroom, but the sound of the shower must wake her up, because Molly’s awake when I slip into bed beside her.
She stares, her eyes wide. “Saul? What happened?”
“Got in a little scrape.” I try not to look at her. I don’t want her to worry. But fuck, it was a bad one.
We tracked down the Irishmen that shot up our strip club, but they’d gotten back up by then, and it turned out we rolled right into their trap. We got lucky and outnumbered them, but the fighting was intense and I took a few good hits before it was all over. My left eye is bruised and my ribs feel like someone tried to kick them in. Which is actually what happened.