Total pages in book: 197
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Zeke chuckled as Cross lit up the joint, and took a hard drag before handing it over while holding all the smoke in to let it do its thing. “It was only because I was wasted that I agreed to be your passenger. Had they known I was out of it, you never could have entered. Almost wrapped us around a fucking tree.”
Cross sighed as thick gray, heady smoke filled the car, and traveled up through the sunroof to escape. “Good times.”
“How was that good? I thought Cal was going to kill you.”
“Not even a chance.”
Zeke smirked a bit, and glanced over at him as he handed the joint back. “I guess not, huh? Wolf wasn’t scared at all to put the fear of the devil in me. Cal, on the other hand ... most soft-handed Cosa Nostra boss I have ever known.”
“Soft-handed, but not weak.”
“No, not that at all.” Zeke coughed on his exhale when he muttered, “Do you think that was because he thought you—”
“I think it was because he spent his whole childhood getting smacked around by a man who told him it was going to make him a better man. And you know, had he tried that with me, Ma probably would have had his balls. Doesn’t matter; never even crossed his mind.”
“Mmm.”
The two men grew silent as they finished their smoke, and then rested back in their seats to stare up at the cloudless sky.
This was his kind of day. No problems, his best friend, good smoke, and all these years between them. All the years of memories and good times and children, their wives, weddings, birthdays, and everything in between.
All the years ...
“This is the fucking life,” Cross murmured.
Zeke sighed. “Yup.”
“You’re so high.”
“Yup.”
“We’re probably going to have to call someone.”
“As long as it’s not one of our wives, we’ll be fine.”
Yup.
The Neighbor
Naz POV
“What did I tell you, kid?”
Nazio sighed, and shrugged. “I didn’t mean to kick it over there. Sorry, won’t do it again.”
With his new soccer ball he’d gotten for easter dangling in the neighbor man’s hands, way across the street where he wasn’t allowed to go because his father told him not to, Nazio would say just about anything to get it back.
He didn’t see what the big deal was, though.
It was just a ball.
And he really did try not to kick it into the man’s yard, mostly.
He wasn’t trying to be a shit.
He just sometimes was.
Or, that’s what his grandpapa Calisto said.
“No, I think I’ll keep your ball for a couple of days. It’ll teach you a lesson about respect.”
Naz’s brow dipped.
His father talked about respect all the damn time. Like how they had to respect people’s positions around them, or even about his ma, too. She’s a wife, Naz, no fucking excuses, you give a wife respect, got it?
A lot of the times when it came down to something simple, his father would settle the issue with the statement of it’s the respect of the matter.
Naz was pretty sure he understood respect.
Or the respect that counted for him.
It probably wasn’t the same kind of respect that this man meant.
“Aw, come on, please can I have my ball back?”
“So you can kick it right back into my front yard again? Don’t think so, kid.”
The guy turned to walk away.
Naz glared. “Fine, fuck right off, then.”
His dad said that a lot too.
Naz figured out how to say it right.
And finally, he had a time to say it.
Maybe the wrong time, though, if the way the neighbor spun back around on his heels was any indication. “What did you just say to me?”
Well, that was the thing here.
Naz knew it was wrong.
But he’d made a choice, so he kind of had to stick it out.
The pride, and all.
His grandpapa said it was a Donati thing.
His other grandpapa said a good doe of it came from the Marcello side of him, too.
Naz just figured he didn’t know any better.
Or his brain was wired wrong.
Because he didn’t care a bit when he said, “I said, fuck right off, then.”
And that was how Nazio found himself being marched up his driveway by the neighbor while the man muttered on about disrespectful little shits and all this Donati trash. The guy was mad, and Naz just wished he’d stop squeezing his shoulder so hard.
Naz felt the change in atmosphere the moment his father opened the front door. At his young five years, he still knew when his father felt some kind of way. He’d seen in the smallest of ways how his father could change his mask from the same man who tucked him into bed to the man that had pistol-whipped an enforcer that thought to smack Naz in the back of the head for not walking fast enough for his tastes. And with blood still staining his white silk shirt, and dotting his knuckles, Cross then took Naz across the street for his favorite gelato while he watched his men clean up the mess from a city bench.