Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
I crawled backward against the wall.
“I’m not going to hit you—but I am going to take you, and your screams are going to be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t do it, Katya!” Pace yelled. “Me, hit me again, you bastard!”
“You bore me.” Our captor didn’t even turn just tilted his head at me. “You’re very beautiful. Then again, they say Russians are the most beautiful women in the world.”
My stomach dropped. Russian? What was he talking about?
“It does nothing for your brother to fight for you—I’ll have you just the same. Perhaps he’ll be more forthcoming with information if he hears your lovely…” He took a menacing step toward me. “Lovely.” Another step. “Screams.”
I pressed my palms flat against the ground, my teeth chattering as he pulled me back to my feet and ran a gloved finger down the side of my face, then back up the other.
Lips trembling, I watched behind him as Pace drew up to his feet and, with a blood-curdling scream, ran at him and slammed him to the ground.
“Watch out!” I yelled.
But it was too late.
Pace was too slow.
Our captor grabbed his knife and shoved it so deep into Pace’s stomach that his fingers almost disappeared.
Pace turned to me and whispered one last word. “Fight.”
CHAPTER ONE
“I never lie to any man because I don’t fear anyone. The only time you lie is when you are afraid.” —John Gotti
Santino
I hated them.
All of them.
The hatred was built into me from day one. The Cosa Nostra had risen in power so severely, so quickly, that the Families of old were now reporting to Americans.
Because that’s how I saw them.
Selfish. Stuck up. Pussy. Americans.
And nothing was going to change my mind—not even the fact that my grandfather was happier than I’d seen him in a very long time.
It burned that the man I was now reporting to was related to me by blood, that his blood was mixed with the dirty Russians—the only thing worse than the Americans currently sitting inside that small room deciding my fate.
I wasn’t even given a chance to vote.
After all, my life wasn’t my own.
So I killed and killed and killed some more and used blood to buy my own freedom.
One more task.
And I was done.
The blood would still be on my hands, but at least they would let me walk away because, unlike the American bastards, at least the Italians, my grandfather, had a soul.
Or so I was told, too many times for me to count. Having a conscience, or a soul, it’s a weakness in the mafia, it’s everything they breed out of you before you’re born, then condition you away from when you’re young, or in my case, they hit it out of you.
Beat you until you can’t see straight.
When I was eight, I nearly went blind in my right eye because my dad had so much blood running down his swollen knuckles that he was afraid of nerve damage, so he found the closest thing he could find.
A chair.
He broke a leg off. I still remember him raising it high over his head, the look of rage on his face—but what I think I remember the most is the look of pain as if he was beating himself and me.
The cycle, of course, continued until I was strong enough to fight back. After all, wasn’t that what he wanted in the first place? To raise someone willing to do anything in order to protect The Family? Our birthright? Our name?
The great Sinacores.
I shook the memory from my soul, not just my head. It wasn’t enough to stop thinking about it. I had to stop feeling it because feeling made you believe it was true, that you were wronged.
How could training your son to become a weapon be wrong?
It was never supposed to be me in the first place. I was the youngest of the grandsons. First, it was supposed to be my father, but he died; then it was supposed to be my brother, and well, he turned out to be an even bigger sacrifice than the guy currently pointing a gun at my head—execution style. And then, it was just life. Training. Knowing that you have one job, and this is it. This was my job.
This guy’s clearly watched way too many mafia movies, the ones that get it wrong. How was he even made? Was he a captain? Foot soldier?
“Nice day outside.” I crossed my arms and gave him a smug grin; it always unarmed the dumb ones because they expect me to look afraid. “You always tuck your shirts in, or is today just my lucky day to see you all prim and proper? Wow!” I leaned forward. “Not even a speck of blood, how disappointing.”
“Oh, this old thing?” He sneered and pointed at his white v-neck shirt. “I just like to see how much blood I spill—I get off on it. You would too, if you knew how to use your equipment.”