Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
As we walk up the few steps to stand in front of the police chief, the older man takes one look at me and laughs.
My fists clench tightly by my sides with that mocking laughter.
The chief reaches up and pushes my hood back, blinking at my appearance, before turning to Quaid and uttering a cool, “Is this some kind of joke?”
Quaid stands taller, showing all the respect a white guy can show. “No, sir.”
The chief looks me in the eye but speaks to Quaid. “I know Antonio Falco.” He pauses, sharpening his gaze on me. “I’ve dined with Tony Falco, played cards with the gentleman, been to his home and shared forty-year-old whiskey with the man.” His eyes meet Quaid’s. “And this ain’t him.”
Quaid’s hand tightens on me in a way that tells me he’s pissed. “Sir, I—”
I can’t fucking handle it any longer. I snatch my arm out from Quaid’s none too lightly and talk directly to the chief. “So you know a guy named Falco. My bet is there’s a few of us out there. Especially in New Jersey.”
Silence.
I have him there. He knows it. I know it. We all know it.
The chief blinks at me, then asks, “Where were you born, son?”
“New York Methodist, April ’75.”
He sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth, steps back and blinks at me in what can only be called controlled confusion.
Licking his lips, he takes his time saying what he has to say. “Detective Quaid, you didn’t bring me Antonio Falco.”
I feel Quaid panic by my side as he starts, “Sir, I didn’t kno—”
But he’s cut off as the chief adds in deathly calm, “You brought me his son.”
What the fuck did he just say?
The chief takes a step toward me, unblinking, and says the words I know are coming but dread to hear. “Antonio Falco. Junior.”
Shit.
Motherfucker knows my pops.
It’s funny how some moments can change your life, shape it, mold it into something unfamiliar, going somewhere foreign, and all you can do is accept the fact or lose the fight.
Well, I don’t accept the fact. Nor do I anticipate losing the fight.
My thinking right now?
Bring it the fuck on.
I am tired of being the weakling, told where to go, what to do, how to dress. For once, I am taking control of my life, and if that means smiling through my suicide, then so be it.
Julius had it wrong.
I am never going home. Not willingly.
If he truly believes he’s going to take me back there, the only way I’ll let him is by escorting my cold, lifeless body to my father’s front doorstep.
As I half lay on the leather chocolate-brown chesterfield with Julius sitting close on the coffee table, facing me, watching me with those cold blue eyes, his elbows resting on his knees, covering his mouth with the tips of his fingers, I’m quietly reminded that this man is far more dangerous than he looks.
His calm demeanor has my mind working a mile a minute, and alarm has me whispering a quavering, “Who the hell are you, Julius Carter?”
Light blue eyes narrow on me, but I don’t receive an answer.
From the open doorway, a confident voice purrs, “He’s the guy you call when the very best manage to fuck up.” Ling steps forward, smiling widely, and for a single moment, I wonder how a woman with balled-up tissues stuffed up her nose can still look beautiful. She sits on the matching chesterfield opposite mine, a fraction to the left so as to still intimidate me with her vicious, happily cruel stare. Crossing a dainty leg over her knee, she smooths her black dress with delicate, red-painted fingers. “JC is judge, jury, and executioner.” At the paling of my face, her pearly whites flash. She loves what she’s doing to me. “Julius doesn’t make the laws of our world, Alejandra. He is the law.”
My insides churn painfully.
Well. That surely makes me feel better.
Thank you, Ling.
In an unconscious action, my hand grips at the thin material at my stomach, and I fight a grimace. Nerves have always been a killer for me.
Julius’s gaze travels down my body and lands in the exact region where my hand is resting. Slowly sitting up straight, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an orange tube of pills. In a swift motion, he throws it to me, and I catch it easily. My brow furrows in confusion as I look down at the white label and read aloud, “Doxylamine.” I open my mouth to ask what they are, but I can’t find the words. I’m so tired.
Julius speaks for the first time since our rancorous fight out in the front yard. “It’ll help you keep food down.”
“Food?” What?
The man holds himself tall, the picture of patience. “My friend’s girl had the same issue. Take the pills. You gotta eat.” He adds, “For the baby.”