Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
When I left this place, I spent the following six months in a perpetual haze of alcohol and pot, anything to numb my senses and help me forget how I’d left my shattered heart behind these walls. It took me months to soothe and self-medicate before I got smart. The day I realized wallowing in misery wasn’t going to get me what I wanted, I made drastic changes to my life. I set goals, I put my eye on the prize, and began to hustle.
Growing up on the streets has its benefits. I know how to put together an operation and run an outfit. Street connections never die, and I used my reserves to get my foot in the door, even drawing on my dead dad to get me connected. Luckily, it worked in my favor. I got my independence. My fortune grew and with it my power. But the end goal was always Kat in my arms, even if sometimes I was too proud to admit it.
My first break came when I got a job as a bouncer at a local sports bar, and that’s when the owner, Georgio Fratelli saw what I could do with my fists. He saw dollar signs in my relentless anger and wanted to harness it to do his bidding. I had a lot of pent-up rage brewing inside me and Fratelli knew it was an asset. A guy with a broken heart who’s got nothing to lose was a virtual goldmine for a mobster like Fratelli. I was Georgio’s perfect naive hothead to take advantage of—the guy assigned to do his dirty work.
So there I was, nineteen, fucked up and starting to get in deep with the Italian mob. But the one thing I had going for me over the other meatheads was that I was smart. Not just street smart—I had a fucking education from Fairview, the most elite private school on Long Island, thanks to Richard Shaw. The other runners in my circle were lucky if they had a GED and got cocky if they managed not to drop out of high school. Georgio knew what he had in me and hooked me up with a guidance counselor who processed my deferral from NYU and got me re-enrolled to start classes toward an MBA. Georgio was no dummy. He knew what an asset I was, and he spoke to me like I was his equal, well on my way to becoming one of their inner circle.
But the MBA was my ticket to legitimacy. I got established in upper management as a trusted team player and emerging leader. The shot callers adored me and tried their best to groom me. I wasn’t just a punk kid anymore; I was the guy who knew how to manipulate the numbers, launder the dirty money, and create enough shell corporations to have the FBI sniffing around for years before they could pin anything on the corporation.
I was good at my job. Hell, I killed it at work. Listed in Forbes as ‘Thirty under Thirty’ just eighteen months after receiving my degree. I didn’t squirm at corruption. I’d seen it all and then some. And from the way I’d been kicked around like a dog in Wainscott Hollow, I’d learned to be ruthless, sometimes even lethal. I didn’t need to get my hands dirty, there were plenty of underlings for that, but I had no issue being called into the fray. Sometimes I even craved it, like the blood on my hands became a metaphor for the carnage in my heart. Hearing the screams of my victims quieted the desperate screams in my own mind. Who knew the sweet, orphaned kid from Wainscott Hollow would become capable of murder and mayhem that would have any capo quivering in his shiny Italian leather shoes?
I took one more drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my foot and unlocking the giant mahogany door with the Shaw family crest embossed in gold filigree into the glass. Old man Shaw must be so proud looking down on us. His empire is a worthless wasteland, thanks to his insanely inept son.
“Who the fuck are you?” is the first thing Henry slurs.
He stumbles down the marble staircase where the portrait of Richard Shaw now hangs crookedly in its former place of honor. Henry looks like shit, barefoot, clad in striped pajama bottoms that hug his burgeoning beer gut a little too snugly, and a wife beater with yellowed armpits and stains that resemble vomit. I can smell the cretin better than I can see him. His hair has grown long and falls in greasy strings around his jaundiced face. His chin is covered in a sparse bird’s nest, a jumbled mess of straggly hair attempting to disguise his weak jawline. A beard that, strangely, falls to his navel. He looks clinically insane. The man needs a hospital, not millions in inheritance to squander. No wonder Kat went off and married Eddie to escape the nightmare of this house.