Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
One week out of prison, and my mind’s still locked up.
My heart, my soul—they died there.
When a mafia hitman comes after me, I end him with my bare hands.
But the beautiful florist witnesses my crime.
I have no shame tying her up and making her my prisoner.
Until she kisses me. Offers up that sweet body and makes me needy for more.
And then all bets are off.
She’s coming with me.
I can’t let her go.
My soul may be unsalvageable, forever living in a den of sin.
But the rest of me knows what it wants.
And I want her.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Armando
Is a sinner ever free?
Regardless of the answer, I’m as close as you can get. I’m no longer trapped in a cage.
The prison gates open, and I walk out with nothing but a paper bag that contains the few belongings I came in with.
My cousin, Marco, waits for me, standing in front of his SUV with an overly expressive smile on his face. I know him well enough to see right through it. Sure, he’s happy to see me, but he’s obviously uncomfortable.
Can’t say I blame him.
Marco visited me here on occasion. He would drive up from Chicago, our hometown an hour away, to spend an hour updating me on what was going on with the Outfit. He, and sometimes his brother Leo, are the only ones who visited out of the La Famiglia.
Again, something I understood.
Prison could be contagious. No one wants to catch it.
It’s a plague that once transmitted is hard to treat.
Even my mother didn’t visit—not being able to handle seeing her son treated like an animal. Her words, not mine.
As I hesitate outside of the prison gates, Marco eventually steps forward, breaking the silence. “It’s good to see you,” he says, finally giving up his painted smile.
“Yeah.” I'm not sure I’m up for small talk yet.
Marco seems to understand and moves on quickly, motioning to the car. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
We both climb into the vehicle, and Marco starts the drive back to the city.
I stare out the window, seeing nothing. Apparently hearing nothing until I realize Marco has been talking the whole time.
“...when you hit Rocco’s for a haircut and shave Friday. It’s the same old crew, of course, but I’ll bet they give you priority in the barber’s chair…. The florist shop is still next door, but Mary Alice sold the place to her apprentice, Hannah. Remember her? She was just a kid when you left, but she’s hot as fuck now….”
I tune him out. The places he’s talking about–our old familiar haunts–seem so far away and removed right now. I guess I’ll have to go there to feel anything.
“Some shit’s changed since you've been away,” Marco observes.
I don't answer, waiting for him to go on.
“The Outfit's getting more and more powerful, but it's losing its soul. A lot of the Made men are getting complacent. There's no more progress, you know? No old soul wisdom, as the don calls it.”
I absorb his words without comment. Marco is a smart guy. There's no one whose opinion I respect more, especially when it comes to Family business. He came into the Outfit about the same time I did, but he has good insight into it. He is far wiser than his age or experience.
He definitely possesses the old soul wisdom. Marco seems to be able to look at the organization objectively and notice what's really going on.
I try to focus on his words, on work, and on what will be my reality again now that I’m back in the fold of the family, but I fight an overwhelming tightness in my chest.
The sides of the SUV feel suffocating, reminding me of the prison cell.
I take a deep breath and crack the window. It's been a long time since I’ve been around anyone who hasn’t been jaded by the system. People in prison speak differently than people who are free.
Getting used to Marco—getting used to anyone—is going to be a challenge.
Fifty-four months. That’s how long I served in the state pen. My colorless existence between four concrete walls.
Longer than some members of the Outfit served. Shorter than others. I kept my mouth shut and did the time like I was supposed to. I also earned a business degree.
“Out on good behavior,” Marco huffs, as if he’s reading my mind. “Who would have thought?”
I don’t answer but think how ironic that is since I literally shanked a man in prison. Thankfully, I’m a Made Man, and the don kept me protected and out of trouble. Amazing how the mafia has the ability to make things simply disappear on the inside. The power inside the system may even be stronger than outside the concrete walls.
Noticing the white knuckles of Marco’s hands as he grips the steering wheel, I see I’m making him uncomfortable. I know why. I got pinched, and he didn’t. I served time while he remained free. I’ve felt the same way before. A survivor’s guilt of sorts when one of your own goes down for a family crime. It’s hard to face, and there is always a part of you that wonders when you’ll be next. It’s cliche to say that prison changes a man, but it’s fucking true.
Now, riding passenger in my cousin Marco’s car back in Chicago, I don’t experience the big joy of freedom. I note the sky. Tall buildings. The traffic. The noise and energy of the city that ate me up and shit me out. It elicits nothing. The familiar streets, familiar places evoke nothing of my old self. Of the young man I was before I did time. I’ve been numb the whole ride, having some kind of out-of-body experience with being on the outside. I’ve thought of this day since the day I went in, but now that it’s here, now that I’m out... I feel nothing at all. I’m dead to the experience.