Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Adam,” I say, turning toward the wreckage of the sidewalk. At first, all I see is blood, half from the dead attacker and half from the Polish bodyguard. Then I spot the big crime boss climbing to his feet, hidden behind an old metal mailbox, the blue paint chipped and rusted from years of neglect, but apparently enough to save his life.
“The bastards,” the big man growls as he pushes past me and rushes to his bodyguard. “Jakub, I told you to stay home.” He cradles the dead man’s head, strangely tender. Around us, bystanders begin to poke their heads out, and I notice more than one calling 911.
“We need to go,” I tell him, gently taking his arm.
But he shoves me back. “Jakub was a friend. I’ll stay with him.”
“The police are on their way. They’ll have questions.”
“And I know nothing about what happened here, except there was a botched robbery.”
I hesitate, not happy about leaving him. But I know better than to get mixed up with the police. I hurry to the dead attacker and yank off his mask: wavy dark hair, olive complexion. I’d say Italian, which is confirmed when I yank his wallet out and check his ID: Raffaele Bianchi.
Dark thoughts swirl. This had to have been the Biancos, and they wouldn’t bother with a hit like this if they didn’t think it was worth the risk. Which means we’re on their radar before we’re ready, and that’s a very, very bad thing.
Someone talked. I don’t know how else the Biancos would’ve heard, much less would’ve known about my meeting with Adam. Very, very dark thoughts swirl, as I hurry away from the scene of the shooting, already planning my next ten moves.
Chapter 14
Laura
Ifeel like a little kid again as I sit at my mother’s kitchen table. She bustles around the stove and makes tea.
The house is different. She had it renovated at least twice since we grew up here. And anyway, I was rarely home back then. I was the youngest of five, and by the time I came around, Mom was basically done with the whole parenting thing. Forget about Dad getting involved. I had free rein of the oasis, and I usually spent my days exploring the other houses and getting into trouble with my brothers. I was raised by nannies, counselors, and teachers, and my parents sent me away to boarding school when I was eight. Every summer I enrolled at this fancy nature retreat with a few of my brothers, usually Davide, and it was hard to call this place my home, even when I was little.
I think I love my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m even capable of that emotion. I’m ambivalent toward my father, and I’m grateful he’s not around today. But my mother, while not always present, was always warm, kind, and loving, and she was there when I needed her the most.
When Mom sits across from me, I can see a lot of myself in her. We share the same eyes, same nose, same cheeks and hair. She’s older, grayer, more wrinkled than I remembered; I could’ve sworn she was barely forty. But now she looks her age, late sixties. In good shape, but not young anymore.
“I can’t remember the last time you came over,” Mom says, smiling and brushing her hair back. She’s always been good at making people feel comfortable, although I don’t think any amount of charisma and charm could help me with this situation right now.
“It’s been a while,” I admit, and that’s an understatement. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been in this house since the attack on the oasis a couple years back, and it’s right down the block from me.
“Well, I know you aren’t very comfortable with small talk, so I’ll skip right to asking you what I can do to help.” She gives me another stress-defusing smile, and I sip my tea to give my hands something to do.
“I want a car.” I blurt it out since I can’t think of a better way to do this. Technically, I have my own money, and I could go out and get a vehicle anytime I wanted. But in my family, it’s not that simple. Simon has to approve everything that comes into the oasis, which means he’ll know about it, and he might not want to let me drive considering I haven’t been behind the wheel in a while.
“Okay,” Mom says, and she’s doing a good job not looking surprised. “What made you want a car?”
“You know about my gallery show at Cage.” She was present at the first one briefly but decided to skip the second. “Putting that on and going into public made me want to have a little bit more freedom. I think a car is a good first step.”