Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Because every criminal organization needed a wheelman. And just coming from a mafia bloodline didn’t mean you actually had any innate talents like precision driving. So they needed to outsource.
“Yo, you here?” Huck asked, making my head snap over to see him glancing at me from the passenger seat.
“Yeah,” I said, exhaling hard. “Just thinking about the old days with the Family,” I admitted.
“You said shit ended on amicable enough terms.”
They had.
Or I would have been nothing but food for the crocs or gators in the nearest swamp.
I wasn’t exaggerating, either.
They used to make that joke all the time about how they needed to put the local predatory animals on the payroll for how much work they did for the organization.
“The way the population is out of control, that’s all thanks to us. They’re eating good,” the boss had said with a hearty belly laugh as he puffed on a cigar.
Tony Barelli had been the physical manifestation of most mafia guys from film and TV cliches. On the shorter side with a hangover waistline that was full of food from the local restaurant he owned, that his whole family had owned for generations.
He wore bowling shirts, a thick gold chain on his wrist, and a Saint Michael necklace.
He smoked cigars, cussed like a sailor, and was the most charming and affable man you’d ever met… until you crossed him.
One of my favorite pastimes back in those days was to just sit across a table from him and listen to him tell his wild-ass stories.
“They did,” I told him. “I mean, the whole thing fucking blew up, but they understood. It wasn’t my fault. And they got most of what they needed out of me.”
“Why’d they let you leave?” Seeley asked, glancing over at me. “The mob isn’t known for just letting people out.”
“True,” I agreed. “For made members. I was never made. I was always just… on the payroll. I mean, they trusted me more than some of the other guys down at the associate level, but they never planned on letting me in. I mean… I’m barely even Italian,” I said, shaking my head.
I was mostly Russian, actually. Which was why they’d wanted me to go undercover in the first place for the Bratva.
My last name was Russian. I spoke a couple of words, mostly curses, in my family’s native tongue thanks to a foul-mouthed uncle I had growing up. I knew the food and customs. I even knew a fair bit about the Bratva because of that same uncle who had been friends with a member of the Bratva when they were growing up.
“Kinda fucked that they’d ask you to do such a big job when you weren’t made,” Seeley decided.
“It was all just the stars lining up,” I said. “They got word that the Bratva had lost their wheelman. I was someone who could offer their services. And get some information while I was at it.”
And they more than made it worth my time and the risk involved.
Hell, I’d bought a hundred-grand car afterward then put every kind of adjustment into it. And that hadn’t even touched the money they’d given me for the job.
I mean, sure, I’d been laid up for a while afterward, lucky to still be breathing.
But it was a decent-enough retirement from one job that allowed me time to figure out my next move.
And when I’d found out that Che had joined the MC, it had been a natural choice. One with some longevity attached to it. Once you were a brother, you were a brother for life. Even if you weren’t out there doing all the hard work as much anymore, you still got a cut.
And, more so than that, you had a crew, a family. People not only to rely on, but that you could spend holidays and shit with.
My own family had sort of fallen apart after my parents’ divorce. Sure, I was still in contact with my brother, but he had his own life. I had mine. I hadn’t seen him on a holiday or birthday in years.
So while a part of me had always been—would always be—a little drawn to the action involved in the club, the other part of me was happy to know there was comfort and security involved with it as well.
“Kinda shocked I’ve never been to this place before,” Huck said as we pulled down the road toward Tony’s restaurant.
Casa Nostra—Italian for Our Home—was a brick building with red awnings. There were large windows with an outdoor seating area enclosed by metal fencing.
Flowers spilled out of planters and there were window boxes overflowing with fresh herbs. Some of which the restaurant used in their meals, though most of the herbs were grown on the rear brick patio that wasn’t open to the public. Just the Family.