Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Domani
The most fucked-up nights of my life always begin the same way. Mattia Agostino, consigliere to the Valentino family, strolls in, hands in his pockets, leans against the doorframe, and says the same words.
I've got a job for you, Domani.
Once upon a time, I didn't ask many questions. It wasn't what the Valentino family paid me to do. That changed almost two years ago when the Valentino brothers—Rafe, Luca, and Gabriel—decided they were stepping back for a while, and we—Mattia, Diego Butera, Coda Passero, and I—were stepping up as the new faces of the family. It's been a fucking endless headache ever since.
But some things don't change. When Mattia says he has a job for me, I've inevitably got blood on my hands, or I'm getting stitched up by the time the sun rises.
I don't know which tonight has in store for me, but it's bound to be one or the other.
Frankly, it's a pain in my motherfucking ass. It's two in the morning. I could be sleeping right now.
But what's that saying?
Oh yeah. Life's a bitch, and then you die.
I knew what I was signing up for before I ever threw my lot in with Rafe when I was eighteen. I did what I had to do to ensure the man who raised me—my father—paid for his crimes. If my soul is black as a result, it's a small price to pay.
But if I die in Cillian Brennan's compound tonight, I'm going to be pissed about it. Being picked off by the Irish mobster and his family is not the way I want to go out.
I hoist myself over the back wall of his compound anyway, taking care not to rip my goddamn pants all to hell.
The back of his property is mired in shadow, not a single light burning in the rundown mansion. But thanks to the streetlights and the full moon, I see enough. Cars litter the backyard, some on blocks, some in various stages of being stripped. Entire patches of grass are MIA, leaving behind nothing but mudholes.
For a motherfucker worth his weight in gold, Cillian hasn't used a cent of it to restore this place since he set up shop in Chicago. It's a good front if he's trying to look like he isn't worth damn near as much as Rafe, the capo dei capi, I'll give him that. Unfortunately for him, no one who knows him buys it. The Irish mob has deep pockets, and Cillian is growing too powerful in this city.
It's bad for business. But we can't kill him outright. That'd spark a war we don't want. Instead, I'm bugging his fucking house. Cillian is as dirty as they come. He spends as much time fucking over his own people as he does expanding their operations. Once we get what we need, we'll pass it along and let his people handle him for us. The move is beneath us, but it's infinitely better than dragging the city back to the brink of war. We've been there far too often lately.
Granted, I have to make it into and out of this shithole first. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that bullshit.
I push off from the wall, landing on my feet in the backyard. I crouch in the shadows, waiting for several long moments to see if the noise brings anyone out of the house. Nothing moves.
Huh. Interesting.
I check the gun strapped to the small of my back and the other hidden in the holster at my side and then double-check the knife in the sheath at my wrist. I've got another in a sheath at my ankle and another strapped to my thigh.
A motherfucker won't ever catch me unprepared. Been there, done that.
Satisfied that my shit is in order, I slip through the shadows, making my way closer to the house. I stop every few feet to reassess, making sure that no one has stepped out and that no one else is moving through the shadows. It takes all of ten minutes to make it to the back door. It's still dead silent inside and out.
I spot the camera aimed toward the door and quickly decide to find another route into the house. None of the windows downstairs are unlocked, and I can't risk breaking the fucking glass, but there's a window on the second floor around the side of the house that's thrown wide open.
Fuck my life. Looks like I'm climbing.
I wedge myself between a tree and the house, using both to help haul my big ass up toward the window. It doesn't take long to scale the tree, but I don't breathe the entire fucking time, worried that I'm going to place my foot wrong and go crashing down or draw attention from whoever might be in the room upstairs. There's a reason why men my size don't climb trees. When you're six-four and two hundred eighty pounds, climbing a goddamn tree isn't easy.