Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
He also had nothing to lose. He’s the fourth son of Santo Tacone. He slipped away with no big expectations on his head. Very little blood on his hands. He didn’t have the pressure to emulate my father’s vicious ways and keep order in Chicago. Didn’t have to hold La Famiglia and the old neighborhoods together after our father went to prison.
“We should call him.”
“Why?” I snap.
Paolo shakes his head. “What if this is a big fucking mistake? Madonna, Junior, if Gio dies—”
“He’s not going to fucking die!” I snap.
Desiree whirls at the same time and glares at Paolo. “Nobody’s dying on my watch.” She rubs alcohol over Gio’s forearm for the IV. “If you’re going to be bringing my patient down with your bad attitude, you should leave.”
Cristo, I love the piss and vinegar in her. It makes my cock so hard when she picks that chin up and flashes defiance right in my face. Considering her rebellion doesn’t stem from ignorance, I’d say the girl had balls of steel. If she had balls, of course.
Paolo scowls and pulls me back into the hallway, out of earshot. “Okay, I get that she knows what she’s doing, but what the fuck, Junior? Did you seriously think this through?”
I gnash my teeth and don’t give him an answer.
“Tell me you weren’t thinking with your dick when you asked me to bring her here.”
I wrap my fist in his shirt and slam Paolo up against the wall, my fear for Gio making my normally low patience level non-existent. “Shut your fucking mouth. She’s here because she’s good, that’s it.”
“Right.” He’s breathing hard, probably working to keep his own temper in check. “And what happens to her when this is over, huh? You gonna get rid of her?”
I pull him away from the wall and slam him back, because I don’t like him threatening her life, even in a secondhand, vague way. “No, stronzo. I’m gonna pay her off. Money or fear will keep her quiet. Or a combination of the two. I’ll handle it.”
Paolo doesn’t quite meet my eye, but his jaw is set at a sullen angle. “Someone ought to call Nico.”
I release him and throw my hands out, Italian style. “Be my guest.” I stalk away, down the stairs to the kitchen. I can’t eat, but I pour a couple fingers of scotch for myself and throw it back.
I listen for Paolo’s voice on the phone with Nico, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the front door slams.
My skin pricks with irritation, but I pour another finger of scotch and swallow it down. Send a text to Mario and tell him I want a glass repair company at Caffè Milano first thing in the morning. I never intended to burn that business with Family shit. I will stop by there personally to repay them for damages and make sure no one there’s going to squeal as soon as I can get away. And after the dust has settled.
I don’t know how long I stand there with the empty glass in my hand, but eventually I hear light footsteps coming down the stairs.
Desiree comes into the kitchen. Exhaustion shows in the circles under her eyes, the weariness around her mouth.
I pull out a fresh glass, pour another couple ounces of scotch and hold it out to her.
She stares at it for a moment, then takes it wordlessly and tosses it back. Her shudder as it goes down confirms my suspicion that she’s not much of a drinker.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll eat.” She pats her hips. “Not good for the girlish figure to eat before bedtime.”
“Fuck that. You worked your ass off today. Your body needs fuel.”
I’m not the daddying type. Not in the least. I don’t even know what makes me insist. Maybe I’m just offended by her suggestion that her curvy body isn’t the most perfect figure ever made.
I walk to the refrigerator and pull it open. It’s mostly full of take out boxes and ready made food like that. “You want a sandwich?” I ask. “Or there’s half a calzone in here.”
“You have any ice cream?” Her soft voice is right behind me, and I register it with distinct pleasure.
I throw open the freezer, happy because I know I do. I pull out a full pint of Ben & Jerry’s mint chocolate cookie. I’m not big on sweets, but I bought it the other day on some weird impulse.
“Ohmygod, that’s my favorite.” She literally snatches the carton out of my hand and tears the top off.
My lips twist in an uncharacteristic smile as I pull open the silverware drawer and grab two spoons.
I hand her one “I like your enthusiasm, doll.”
She wrinkles her nose, holding the carton of ice cream right against her chest as she digs the spoon in. She flops down in one of the kitchen chairs.