Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I let out a sigh. “Don’t break his jaw. I need him to be able to speak.”
Gold chain guy’s eyes flashed with fury, though one was swollen shut already.
Dropping to a crouch in front of him, I gripped his face and forced his head back. “You have two choices. You can go to Sergio Donato and tell him that I know what he did, that I will keep coming for The Outfit, piece by fucking piece, until everyone associated with it is dead.”
For the first time, I saw a hint of fear in the man’s eyes, which meant he wasn’t actually mentally deficient. Good.
“Or, you can go to your capo and make him an offer. If the capo hands over Sergio Donato and Matteo Romero, I’ll allow them to appoint a new boss and leave the rest of their men alone.” I shoved him away and pushed to my feet. “Are you loyal to Donato or The Outfit?” With that, I turned away.
It was a good offer, the only mercy I would offer any of them because I wanted to destroy them all. The blood lust was a hand around my throat, squeezing. Because my pride was dented? No. Because their deception had cost me good men, and it had almost cost me Tommy. Because though I would never hurt Emilia, they had still tossed her to me like a juicy morsel, not caring what happened to her. And because they had killed her sister, an innocent woman who deserved better.
I heard Jackson’s fist land the first punch, then came the cracking of bone, the grunt of pain, and wheezing gasps for air. A punch from my enforcer was like being hit with a sledgehammer.
“Don’t kill him, Jackson.” I stepped outside the office, the sound of fists meeting flesh and grunts of pain fading as I made my way through the warehouse.
Adamo waited by the door, keeping watch. “Tell the men to douse the entire place in gas,” I said as I passed.
I lingered by Jackson’s car until he came out of the building a few minutes later. The heavy smell of gasoline was already drifting in the wind as two of his guys dragged the unconscious messenger into a car.
“You do realize that when I say don’t kill him, it doesn’t mean, almost kill him?”
He snorted and opened his car door, taking out a cloth. He proceeded to wipe the blood from his hands before tossing it back inside. “I think ‘barely breathing’ is a nice touch.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and placed one between his lips. “Sends a solid message. Wouldn’t you agree?” Fucking Jackson.
“No.”
His lighter sparked, the flame dancing over his face. “You’re no fun anymore. Although, for a second there, I thought you were going to be.”
“You have issues.”
He shrugged, and I inhaled a deep breath, the briny scent of the lake now drowned out by the gasoline singeing my nostrils.
I checked my watch, my pulse rising in anticipation. I had armed men in the surrounding buildings and back up half a mile away. But I hoped I didn’t have to use them for what came next. Patrick O’Hara.
“Is the perimeter tight?” I asked.
Jackson glanced at his phone. “Yep.”
This was bold, meeting the mob boss here, on Outfit soil. But I needed him to see that our enemy was one and the same.
I’d hand him the fucking match and let him burn down a major link in The Outfit’s business. Without this warehouse, they’d be grounded for weeks. Ripe for the picking.
With my offer to the capos, hopefully, they’d see that Sergio Donato was not worth the hell I would rain down on them. It was the only time I’d grant them mercy. The only opportunity they might get to take the easy way out before I could no longer hold back Nero.
Jackson’s phone buzzed, and the glow of the screen washed over his face as he glanced at it. “They’re coming through the gate now.”
8
GIO
My men fanned out as three SUVs rounded the corner and pulled to a stop a few feet away. Headlights cut through the shadows of warehouses that loomed over the scene like silent onlookers. Doors opened, and several men filed out, guns raised, their movements practiced and efficient.
Jackson hiked up his rifle, but I placed a hand on the barrel, lowering it. We weren’t here to fight with the mob.
I spread my arms wide, palms up to show I wasn’t armed.
Seconds seemed to tick by painfully slow before the back door of one of the SUVs opened. One shiny shoe met the tarmac, and an older man stepped out into the tense night air. He was maybe mid-fifties, wearing a three-piece suit, gray hair neatly combed back. Partick O’Hara had an old school vibe about him that reminded me of some forties gangster film.