Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“You want to talk about her?” Niall says, sitting on my couch and kicking his feet out.
I give him an amused look. “Who are we talking about here? My mother? Your sister? I’ll talk about your sister, if you like. Fine-looking woman—”
“Don’t,” he warns. “God, you’re a sick bastard. You grew up with me and Laney.”
“You’re not my real cousin so it’s an acceptable joke. Now, who are we talking about?”
“The Santoro girl.” He’s looking smug again and drinks some whiskey. “You were in a mood for hours after she left.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stare at the clock, willing this day to be over.
“Sure, pretend like it was just the beating Seamus gave you. Come on, you’ve been very careful not to mention her since she stopped in a couple nights ago, and now I’m finally breaking down and asking you about it.”
“You heard the job. You think I should’ve taken her up on it?”
He shrugs and studies his drink. “We’ve done harder for less and on worse intel.”
“The Bianco—”
“How long will they be your excuse?” His eyebrows raise in challenge.
I sit up straight and force back my anger. Anyone else and I wouldn’t put up with that kind of talk, but this is Niall. We grew up together, learned how to fight on the same streets, bled and burned and bruised together. He’s the only damn person in this entire family I trust with my life.
“Marco Vitale tried to put together his little alliance against the Biancos, but he fucked it all up. Adam Jankowski died following through on that vision. Now, Marco’s married to a Bianco daughter, and the Jankowski Gang is in shambles. Do you really think now is the best time to pick our heads up above water?”
Niall seems thoughtful. His expression darkens. “Some of the cousins have been talking.”
My eyebrows raise. “The cousins are always fucking talking. That’s all they ever do.”
“I’m serious, Ronan. They’re saying you’re not like your father. They think maybe we should rethink leadership a bit.”
That’s not good. There’s always grumbling from the cousins—half of them think they should be in charge and the other half just want more money—but it rarely rises to the level of actual dissent.
“Give me names.”
He waves a hand. “It’s all just bullshit right now, but you know how fast it can change. Once they’re saying it out loud, even if they don’t really mean it yet, one day they could.”
“Names, Niall.”
“Nah, cousin, I don’t want you starting some fucking purge. Just trust me for now. They’re saying you’ve gone soft because of the Marco thing, yeah? Your friend stabs you in the back, and what do we do? Absolutely nothing. And don’t give me that look, that’s what they’re saying.”
I lean back in my chair fighting back my rage. I can’t blame him for telling me what he heard, but it still pisses me off. Under my leadership, the Hayes Group’s doubled its profits and increased our import business. We’ve taken out a dozen little gangs and stolen their turf, and we’ve increased our numbers by half.
We’re stronger than we’ve ever been, and it’s still not enough for these clowns.
It all comes back to the Biancos. The whales swimming through these streets. This is their ocean, and we all know it.
Valentina hates them. The Biancos killed her father. Maybe she’d have something to say about this.
But I don’t want to think about Valentina.
I don’t want to think about her pouty lips, her throaty voice, her thick hair, her smile, her laugh. Hell, even her pissed-off stare. I don’t want any of it. That girl hates me, and it doesn’t matter if she’s clearly at rock bottom right now. I tried to help and she ignored it.
So I don’t want to think about Valentina right now.
“Since you’re so clever right now, what do you recommend I do?”
Niall gets up and carries his phone over to me. “You can start with this.” He turns the device around and shows me grainy security footage. “Watch and don’t make comments.”
That’s hard for me, but I do it. The video shows our warehouse, a big industrial space filled with boxes. It’s clearly very early in the morning, and three men walk into the frame. I recognize two of them: Donal and Ewan, a couple of twin assholes, minor cousins. They pause next to a pallet, rip open some of the containers very carefully, and slip out several long field hockey sticks. They take pains to close it back up again before leaving.
I take his phone, watch it two more times, before tossing it back. I sigh and rub my forehead. “That’s not good.”
“It’s a respect thing. I hate it, but it’s true, you know? They think they can get away with it, so they’re barely even trying to fucking hide. Disgusting, if you ask me.”