Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
His lips quirk. “You do not disappoint, hijo. I almost think I can disappear again and let you run the show. Almost. But then you tried to give it all away.”
“A front man would have sheltered me. A front man I could have controlled. That wasn’t your brother.”
“My brother took control when you did not.” His expression is pure contempt. “As for shelter, isn’t that why you have a bitch with a badge?”
If he’s trying to die, he’s on the right path. “Careful what you say next,” I warn, “or I might not give you the chance to retire properly. That woman with the badge is my wife.”
“Another mistake. She’s dangerous.”
“In all the right ways,” I say. “She’s also off limits. You touch her, or order anyone else to touch her, if she doesn’t kill you and them in the process, I promise you, I will bleed you out while you beg to die.” I motion to Miguel. “He found out the dead way.”
“Did he, now?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Does she know you disposed of the only man I’d ever let stand for me, outside of you?”
“Is he really who you wanted running your operation?”
“No. I wanted you, son. You didn’t step up, but as for Lilah, I’ll concede that in the moment, she’s useful. Her father will be governor. I’ll own him.”
“I’ll own him.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. Either way, owning him is what comes next.”
He’s not wrong, but my reasons for wanting to own Lilah’s father are about protecting her and destroying the Society. Reasons my father will not accept as readily as he will other versions of the truth. “Why do you think I needed a figurehead? Miguel acted a fool. He was going to destroy us all.”
He studies me with intense dark eyes. “Perhaps I underestimated you.”
“Just because it’s not your way, Father, does not make it the wrong way.”
He holds his hands to his sides. “I’m your figurehead.”
“You don’t have it in you to be a figurehead.”
“You don’t have it in you to do what is necessary to run this cartel, which is why you needed your uncle. Now you have me. And don’t you worry about the Society. Me and Pocher are like this.” He crosses two fingers together.
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t you worry, hijo. Daddy is here to save the day.” He holsters his weapon and says, “Let’s go sit for a meal. It’s only appropriate. I’m back from the dead. We need to decide what that means for you, me, and your lovely wife, Lilah.”
Chapter Two
Lilah
I’m as comfortable with death as I am my usage of the word “fuck.”
In fact, me and death have an affinity for one another, and a whole lot in common.
We both get along better with the dead than we do the living. We both scare people. We do a lot of showing up without an invitation. And neither of us is forgiving.
I stare down at Murphy’s dead, lifeless body, a clean, professionally placed bullet hole right between his eyes, and digest what has happened with a cold spot inside me.
Emotion is a lot like dark chocolate—it exists, and some say it’s good for you. I say it’s a bitter, messy, poor excuse of an answer to anything.
If I’d let emotion rule me, Murphy would have been dead days ago when I found out he was following my mother the day she died. If I discover Murphy killed my mother, I will forever mourn the fact that someone else beat me to killing him.
So, do I care that Murphy is dead?
Yes. It’s inconvenient.
Do I care who killed Murphy and why?
Yes, of course, I care.
Because this asshole killed him before he could tell me the truth to replace his mountain of lies.
I’m also concerned that the assassin closest to me, via Kane, and therefore closest to my boss, is Ghost. A single bullet between the eyes is one of his specialties, but it’s a common assassination technique as well. He might not be our guy, but he’s in the forefront of my mind.
A short man in a suit steps out of one of the adjoining rooms. “Agent Love-Mendez, you’re too close to this case. We’re going to have to ask you to remove yourself from the investigation.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Special Agent-in-charge, Larry Allen. This is my case.”
I don’t know him, which, in and of itself, is strange, since I know everyone in this city working for the bureau. But I don’t want to know him either, so that works for me. He was likely brought in from a nearby region to lead an impartial investigation, as if those really exist. “You’re not in charge,” I say.
“Yes, I am,” he bristles, his cheeks puffing out. “I’m in charge.”
If he was certain he was in charge, he wouldn’t need to argue that point.
It would simply be true. He’d know it. I’d know it. Neither of us knows it, right now.