Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
But he's not done. He lunges again, a mix of desperation and fury in his eyes. I sidestep, my fist a blur as it lands a solid blow to his temple. He staggers, disoriented, stumbling back.
The world swirls, the sound of my breath echoing in my ears. He regains his footing, anger burning brighter now. His blade flashes in the dim light as he charges, aiming to end this with a deadly thrust.
I'm ready. I pivot, my forearm meeting his with a solid block. His knife scrapes against my skin again, a fiery reminder that this is life and death. The metallic tang of blood fills the air as my knuckles connect with his cheekbone, the impact rattling him.
In seconds, my brothers have cleared the street so there’s only two of us circling each other and no witnesses but family remaining.
“Fuck you,” he growls as he rears back to hit me again. I dodge his blow and strike hard.
Falling back, his foot catches on an uneven patch of concrete, and before he can regain control, he crashes headfirst into a nearby cinder block.
The sickening thud fills the night air. He’s instantly motionless, out cold. Dread pools in my gut as a pool of crimson forms around him, a chilling reminder of the thin line between survival and oblivion.
I catch my breath, my chest heaving as I wipe the sweat from my brow and survey the scene. The taste of danger lingers, a reminder that in this world, you're either the predator or the prey.
Fern, the resident bartender, appears by my side, eyes wide as she takes everything in. She glances at me, her voice barely a whisper. "You okay?"
I nod, my heart still racing. "Yeah. Just another night at Bella Notte."
We exchange a knowing look, the unspoken truth hanging in the air. In this world, we're the guardians of the night, the sentinels of the shadows. And tonight, the shadows cast a grim reminder that danger can strike from the most unexpected corners.
In my heart, I know what happened.
“It was self-defense,” I say, anxiety gnawing at my gut. I’ve killed eleven men in my lifetime, and I remember the name and face of every fucking one of them.
I still hate the sight of blood. I hate the taste of violence.
And I hate it when Timeo’s grim look and subtle nod confirm that I might have just hit number twelve.
Fuck.
"I'm not gonna start taking orders from my younger brother just because you ended up being the head of this family by default," I snap, frustration and anger lacing my words.
I let the heavy bar fall to the floor with a resounding thud, its vibrations traveling all the way to the mirrors lining the walls of our dimly lit studio. Sergio, my younger brother and Don of the Montavio family, rolls his eyes in exasperation. Timeo playfully feigns a punch at me, but I deflect it with practiced ease and respond with a quick jab that makes him wince and takes his breath away.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Upped your gym game, didn’t you?”
Gino, our enforcer, lets out a chuckle while a couple of the other guys in the room shoot me nervous smiles. He observes me for a few prolonged seconds before shaking his head. "Good to see you coming back."
I turn my gaze away; there’s no need to respond. The ache in my chest is a constant companion and I don’t like the reminder.
“Fuck your gym game,” Timeo comments dryly, picking up a jump rope from the floor. “I saw you doing a demo with Mandy Ministrani last week. Don’t tell me you didn’t use every muscle in your body for that.”
Sergio snorts. I palm the jump rope mid-swing and yank it toward me. Timeo tumbles forward but quickly rights himself and comes up swinging. Two seconds later, we’re jabbing at each other, and he’s got the rope back.
“Been lifting behind my back?” I say, winded, as he flicks the rope at me and tries to trip me. I grab it and yank him toward me again, pinning him in a headlock. A year ago and I’d have kicked his scrawny ass from here to Bunker Hill, but he’s come into his own. He won’t beat me, but it’ll be a good fight.
Timeo smiles, but there’s a sadness behind it. “Been lifting for a year, bro.”
I let him go. Everywhere I turn there’s a reminder of my absence, what I’ve missed, and I fucking hate it.
I wanted to be a better man than that.
Timeo grunts, loads up a bar, and lays on the bench. I quietly spot him.
“I got it,” he says, straining under the weight but holding his own.
“So do I. Don’t you ever let me catch you lifting without a spotter.”
Another grunt, but he doesn’t talk back. Everyone in this place understands that Timeo’s rigorous workouts are a coping mechanism. Lots of us seek solace in the gym, channeling pain and frustration into physical exertion.