Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Not just that, I’ll kill his whole fucking family.
Because you do not threaten what belongs to a Tacone.
And Marissa belongs to me.
At least I thought she did.
But things have changed.
I let her see the violent side of me. The son Don Tacone raised came out today. A brutish, violent man. The kind who has killed with his bare hands.
And what they saw can’t be unseen. The little girl—fuck.
That’s the part that makes me want to sink myself in Lake Michigan with a set of cement shoes. I fucking adored that little girl—Marissa’s cousin. And she saw something she never should have seen.
Beatrice, too. And Lori. And all those customers. The innocent should never have to witness such a thing.
If I’d had my head together, if I hadn’t just had the most terrifying sight in my life unfold before my eyes, I would’ve pulled his ass out of there and beat him to a pulp in the alleyway.
Why the fuck didn’t I?
Idiot. Stupid fucking idiot.
I may have just saved my girl only to lose her anyway.
God’s got a pretty fucking shitty sense of humor, doesn’t he?
I pour myself a glass of scotch and gulp half of it down at once.
And that’s when the doorman buzzes. “Luigi Milano here to see you.”
I square my shoulders. Good. He’s here to bust my balls, I’m sure. But I’m not afraid. I deserve it. And maybe I can finally settle some of the shit between us. Apologize for what my family’s done to him. Make things right.
“Send him up.”
I take out a tumbler and pour him a glass of scotch, too, not that I think he’ll drink it, then let him in the door when I hear the elevator.
He comes in carrying a shoebox under his arm, wearing a tough look of conviction.
“Luigi,” I say. “Come in.” I escort him to my office. “Have a seat. Scotch?” I push the drink in front of him.
“No.” He sits but his face is hard. He sets the old shoebox in front of him.
The power play would be to sit back and wait for him to talk. This is obviously some kind of offensive move. But I push away my usual schtick. Marissa needs me to fix this.
“One million for Milano’s. I’ll take over the lease, get a team to run the business. You and your family can retire.”
Luigi’s face goes red. “What? What are you talking about? No! I’m not here to make deals with you, Gio.” He shakes his head. “Actually, that’s not true. I am here to make one very important deal.”
“Does it have to do with what’s in the box?” I prompt. I have this nagging sense I should’ve led with an apology. Explained my position to Luigi—that I’m in love with his granddaughter and want to make things right.
Instead I’ve gone into my usual wheeling and dealing over scotch, with the air of danger and power around me.
It’s exactly what Luigi hates and yet I play the part he expects.
Fuck.
“Wait—” I hold up my hand. “I want to say something first.”
But Luigi’s already opened the box, and I suddenly know exactly what’s going to happen next.
Just like I knew when Marissa showed up here in that skirt and heels.
Fuck.
The box is filled with old cassette tapes—each one is labeled with a date. He also pulls out an ancient cassette recorder. “You know what these are?” he says.
“I have a pretty good idea.” As if this day hadn’t gone badly enough. My fucking nightmare coming true right there in Milano’s. A gun to Marissa’s head. My colossal fuck-up that I still haven’t figured out how to fix.
And now this.
Blackmail at the hands of my girlfriend’s grandfather.
He slides a tape in the cassette player and hits play. It’s barely audible. There’s a ton of noise, but underneath the background sounds and the warped quality, I hear my father’s voice, giving orders. Vinny, you take care of the Hathaway problem. Junior, find out who skimmed from the electronics heist and teach them a lesson. Take Pauly with you.
Fucking great.
Evidence against my brothers.
“I have dozens of these,” the old man says, shaking the box. “I have more at home. More at my lawyer’s office.”
“You kept them all these years.”
He nods. “Insurance.”
I’m suddenly bone tired.
Sick of La Cosa Nostra. Sick of my family. Sick of being a Tacone.
But mostly sick of this life and living.
“What do you want, old man?” I’m done being kind. It’s too fucking hard when no one accepts it from you.
“I want you to stay away from my granddaughter. Get out of that restaurant where she works. Take Milano’s as collateral for the money you loaned her, but cut her out of this. You nearly got her killed last year and it’s your fault someone pointed a gun at her head again today. And my other granddaughter, who is just a child, had to witness your disgusting violence. Marissa deserves better than this.”