Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Rico nodded toward the door to the back, and we both made our way in that direction, hearing the sound of male voices and the distinct scent of cigar smoke swirled outward toward us.
I pulled my gun as Rico did his, not knowing how many men might be back there. Or if they had weapons. We had to at least imagine there were knives lying around, given their profession.
“Interrupting some—“ Rico started, but his words trailed off, his body tensing, making me move in closer, wanting to see what he was seeing.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting.
But it wasn’t the scene in front of us.
Namely, the trio of men standing around smoking while a third man dangled from a meat hook by the handcuffs that were digging into his wrists, the blood already dripping down his arms. Plastic wrap, the kind they likely used to wrap the meat in the styrofoam trays, was wrapped around his face, covering his mouth, keeping his eyes forced open wide, and crushing his nose enough that breathing must have been difficult.
“The fuck?” Rico snapped, raising his gun, aiming at the guy who ran the shop while I shifted my gun between the other two.
This was not supposed to be one of our partners. This was just a local business that paid us for protection. What the fuck were they doing with a man strung up in their back room?
“How the fuck did you—“ one of them started.
“Think I’m the one asking questions here,” Rico said.
“We don’t answer to you anymore,” the youngest said, puffing out his chest.
“Shut the fuck up,” the owner, likely his father, snapped, glaring at the guy.
“Oh, no?” Rico asked, a chill seeping into his words. “Who the fuck you answering to then?”
There was a reason Rico was Renzo’s right-hand-man, despite most of us coming up together and having the same level of experience.
Rico was a family man, through-and-through. Any real or perceived threat to our organization was treated as a personal attack. He lived, ate, and breathed this life.
More than that, he was always collected, even when he was pissed off. He didn’t have a dark side that rose up like I did, making him unpredictable. He wasn’t as empathetic as Elian could be. Or even have the chip on his shoulder that Cinna did.
All in all, he was as well-adjusted as you could get for a fucking lifelong criminal.
“Don’t gotta tell you shit,” the owner said, gaze hard.
Whoever they were linked up with now, they thought they stood a chance against our family. Which was either unbelievably naïve, or we had a big, unknown threat on our hands.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Someone was always putting pressure on us, thinking the mob wasn’t the powerhouse it used to be. Or just ballsy enough to believe they could take us.
It had been a while, though, since someone came out of left field on us.
“Oh, I believe you’re gonna fucking tell me everything I want to know,” Rico said, tone deceptively calm, even though we were outnumbered. “Maybe while I have you strapped up on the meat hook. But I won’t put you up there by your wrists,” he added, making one of the guys I was watching blanche.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” the owner said, trying to come off as unfazed, but sweat was beading in his hairline as Rico reached for a cigar in the ashtray, and snuffed it out.
“The fuck is this? You fancy yourself mobsters now?” he asked, speaking mostly to himself. “Now, I think the problem here is, Gary, that you don’t know who you are fucking with. Or how much I will enjoy grabbing one of these boys of yours, strapping him to a chair, and start clipping off some digits. That don’t work, could use one of these nice knives of yours to carve them open, and start pulling out organs.”
“You’re not going to do shit,” one of the boys said, the one with the puffed chest, making Rico’s gaze cut to him, brow raised.
The father, though, took the opportunity to rush to the side, grabbing a cleaver, and charging.
Just as the back door flew open, and Cinna moved into the space, gun raised, and aimed.
Then, into the small space, a bullet rang out just a half of a second before the father howled as he fell to his knees, hands going to his calf as the cleaver clattered to the ground several feet away.
“About fucking time,” Rico said, unbothered by the almost attack, his tone calm even as the younger kid cried out for his father, and the older one glowered at us.
“Don’t even think about it,” another voice joined the fold, making me glance over to see Coal standing there, gun aimed at the older kid. Who was trying to reach for a knife lying on a table a few feet at his side. “Who’s the poor schmuck?” he asked, nodding his chin toward the man still dangling, bleeding, and struggling to breathe.