Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Was this the end of truce?
I woke with a foul taste in my mouth, a bad case of the shivers and a hand holding mine too tightly. I knew at once that it wasn’t Greta. The hand was too big, too strong.
I stirred and the hand let go.
With a groan, I forced my eyes open to find Dad watching me with dark shadows under his eyes and an expression in them that was a mix of fury and concern. A hint of stubble showed on his chin. He rarely went out of the house without a shave.
“Where am I?”
Dad’s lips curled. “Las Vegas. Camorra hospital unit.”
Damn, the memory of Nevio’s attack came back and with it the pain in my side. The bastard had rammed his knife into me.
“Is the crazy fucker alive?”
“Which one?” Dad said in a failed attempt at humor. His voice was too strained for it. Then he added. “He’ll live. For now.”
I nodded. It was better this way. I wanted him dead but the consequences would be too dire—for Greta. “You didn’t tell Mom, right?”
Dad looked ready to choke me to death. “Of course not. She thinks we’re having another meeting with the Falcones. She suffered enough when Marci was kidnapped. I won’t let her suffer because of your stupidity.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said with a grimace as a fierce burning pain spread in my side.
“More morphine?” Dad asked with a nod at the drip.
I shook my head. I wouldn’t make myself more vulnerable than I already was, and had been these last few hours. I lifted the covers. I was naked but everything was still where it belonged. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the Falcones had castrated me for wanting Greta.
I lowered the covers.
Dad shook his head as he regarded me for a few heartbeats and I could tell he was fighting to control himself. “Damn it, Amo. Have you lost your fucking mind? Asking the Falcone girl for her hand in marriage on Camorra territory? Why didn’t you just burn down the fucking city and get the war declaration over with?”
“I thought she’d agree to marry me.”
“Let’s disregard the fucking fact that the Falcones would rather burn down New York than allow the girl to live there, what about what I told you? I wasn’t joking when I said I you would have to waive your position as future Capo if you dropped Cressida.”
“I didn’t care.”
Dad swallowed, obviously fighting for restraint. “Don’t tell me you fucked the Falcone girl too? I can’t believe what you told me is all you did with her. You’re leaving parts out and I’m sick of standing in the dark.”
“Don’t,” I snarled even as my side roared with agony. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Dad closed his eyes briefly, then he grabbed my shoulder and got very close. “Get her out of your head now. The only way you could ever have her would be to kidnap her and I don’t have to tell you what would happen after?”
“She’d never forgive me if something happened to her family.”
“You stabbed her twin brother.”
“I did. But he stabbed me first. She’ll understand.” At least, I thought she would. She wasn’t here so I couldn’t ask her.
I knew Greta and I couldn’t be. Like Dad had said, she wouldn’t leave her family. After Nevio’s crazy ass actions probably less than before.
“Let’s get you home before the Falcones change their minds. If we go into war, we’ll do it on equal footing and not trapped in their territory.”
“You declared war?” I asked quietly. I had lived in peace all my life, had longed for war for half of it, but now a loss of truce meant more than losing our drug routes and many soldiers.
Dad’s eyes clouded with disbelief. “Nevio Falcone stabbed you.”
“And I stabbed him. We’re even.”
Dad shoved to his feet and turned his back on me. “If you weren’t my son…”
“Dad. We can’t have war now. How do you explain it to our soldiers?”
“Not too long ago, you wanted war with the Camorra. Now you ask me to keep truce even though you almost died at the hands of a Falcone?” He turned to me, his expression tight with suppressed rage. “I’ve killed many for far less.”
“This is the worst possible time for war. We have two big drug deliveries due in the next few weeks. We can’t redirect them.”
“Don’t you think I don’t know that?” Dad snarled. He shook his head. “This is your fault.”
It was. There was no arguing about it. I’d done it because of my feelings for Greta, feelings she obviously didn’t share in the same intensity.
“We should go now.”
I groaned when I tried to push my legs out of bed. Dad picked up my clothes from the chair, or what was left of them. My shirt had been cut in half and my pants and boxers were covered in blood.