Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“What do you know better than anyone?” Cesare asked, looking over at me.
“That if we want to make it look like its an example and a warning, it has to have classic signs that it was done by someone in the Family. On their knees, face to the wall, bullets to the back of the head.”
Execution style, as they call it.
Classic mafia shit.
Almost as classic as cement shoes.
Classic also meant it was more risky, more difficult to pull off. Which was probably why we were being put on the job so late at night.
“You want this done tonight?” I asked, looking over at Emilio.
“If it is possible, yeah,” Emilio said. “If it’s not, no big deal. We just want this done as quickly as possible. These crews need to know who they’re fucking with,” he told us. “There are clean guns, gloves, and duct tape in the bag on the sideboard,” he added, nodding behind us. “Don’t need you catching another murder charge, do we?” he asked, clamping a hand on my shoulder as he moved past. “Keep us posted,” he added before disappearing into the kitchen.
“My first official hit order,” Cesare said, nodding his head.
“You’re shitting me,” I said, surprised.
“I was left to my own devices up in Maine,” he explained. “Because the boss man didn’t exactly know the intricacies of the shit going on up there, he let me use my own discretion in… handling people who needed handling. And since I’ve been back, it’s mostly been Brio getting the kill calls. It’s finally starting to feel like I’m part of the crew,” he added, turning to take the bag. “You driving or me?” he asked.
“Didn’t bring a car,” I admitted. “So you are.”
I bought myself one in case of jobs that required me to head out of town. But as a whole, I used public transport or walked.
“I’m halfway down the block,” Cesare said, leading me to his sleek black car.
The two of us climbed inside. As he put the car into drive, heading us out into Lewis Crew territory, I slipped on the gloves, so I could inspect the guns.
“Any idea how many fucks there are in the Lewis Crew?” Cesare asked, glancing over at me.
I was usually the one who felt out of the loop.
It had taken me a long-ass time to catch up on crews and major players after I got out.
It felt kind of good not to be the one most in the dark.
“I don’t know an exact number. But I’d say ten or fifteen. Not a big crew.”
“And he wants us to take them all out?” Cesare asked, brows pinching.
“Nah. I figure we get the high-level guys. Leave them as a warning for the rest. If we leave no one to talk, then word won’t get around to the other organizations that our Family isn’t something to be fucked with.”
“Do you know which ones are the heads?” Cesare asked as we parked up the block and watched the guys standing around on the sidewalk under the dappled lights of the street lamps, looking up to no good.
“Blue basketball jersey is one,” I said, looking through the binoculars. “And that one sitting down? In the black. He’s the second. I don’t see their enforcer, though,” I said, having a bit of a sinking feeling at that realization.
I really should have trusted my gut.
It never failed me.
If something in me was saying there was a problem, there was probably a problem.
But it was late.
The two big guys were there.
And Lorenzo was counting on us.
“There we go,” Cesare said as the last two lower-level guys did some elaborate handshake with the leaders before taking off. “We moving?” he asked, deferring to me since I’d been made way back before he was even old enough to do scouting work for the Family.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” I said, passing him his gun.
Adrenaline thrummed through my veins, old and familiar at this point, so it didn’t cloud my mind as we quietly exited the car and made our way up the block.
“Shit,” Cesare said as one of the guys turned and spotted us approaching.
“Execution style,” I reminded him even as the guys reached into their waistbands to find their own weapons.
“Fuck,” Cesare growled, tucking his gun away and breaking into a run.
Clearly, having no one to rely on but himself had made the fucker quick and ruthless on his feet.
The man sprang forward like he was bulletproof, taking down one of the guys.
And distracting the other for long enough for me to be able to get a jump on him, wrapping an arm around his neck and applying pressure until I felt him go limp.
I couldn’t strangle him to death, but it was easier to duct tape and position a bastard for an execution if he wasn’t awake and fighting you.