Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
The trouble was, I wasn’t sure she understood that. I’d seen the hunger in her eyes—for me, and a few times, for Rocco and Julian. The question was why. I never did well in school, but even I could understand a little of the mindset. We represented danger. The unknown. Maybe a wholesome girl like her secretly craved something more than the safe men she’d dated?
Or maybe I was full of shit and fooling myself about the way she’d responded to my touch.
Either way, she needed protection—from us. WE weren’t saints, but we tried to leave the people in the neighborhood out of it unless they wronged us or our bosses. Maggie hadn’t done either. She was a good, hard-working girl and she deserved better.
So I put her out of my mind—or tried to—and two days later, I received word from Rocco. He’d talked to Roselli. Not the kind of conversation I would’ve had though. With me, it would’ve been more like, “Why the fuck did you try to blow us up and then our favorite bar?” And I would’ve let my 45 do most of the talking.
That was why Rocco was in charge, not me. It still killed me, though. That my friend had to speak civility to the weasel who’d tried to have us killed. To pretend everything was fine. To give that bastard respect he didn’t deserve.
Rocco’s news was that Don Gambini was throwing a party over at his mansion. Roselli was invited, and as his enforcers, we were going as part of his fucking entourage. Yeah, because that’s what you did when someone tried to kill you… you escorted him to a party.
I sighed. In this fucked up world, that was what you did. Sometimes. Until you eventually snapped.
When I reached that point, Rocco or Julian were usually there to rein me in.
Usually.
So that was fucking great. I was going to a party. One where there would be good food, good music, and, possibly, bloodshed. There was always a chance of another crew attacking us—that was why we were coming along. The idea was simple. You take out a Don’s men, he’s defenseless and summarily whacked. His businesses are up for grabs. Vultures would take over them without any regret. And by “vultures,” I mean other Dons.
Still, the odds of that were slim. Roselli had a knack for pissing us off, but, as far as we knew, he wasn’t doing that to a fellow boss. He’d been keeping his house in order. He hadn’t trespassed into anyone else’s turf and had been following the rules in general. The odds of anyone attempting anything besides getting drunk and harassing the waitresses were low.
But not zero.
On the other hand, this sort of party was a Don’s wet dream. For one night, he would show off his wealth and power—so Gambini wouldn’t hold back. He was big shit in this city, and he knew it.
Nick would eat that shit up. He felt he was an up-and-coming mob boss, even though everything he had was something his father had built. Not him. But he’d still show up, and act like the big man.
Which pretty much guaranteed that we’d have a miserable time.
Still—free booze. And the good stuff, too.
The night of the party, I had to hand it to Gambini. His mansion in Sands Point was a thing of beauty. It was huge, but that was expected of him. The pathway in the estate made me feel I was in some expensive Miami hotel: Two hundred yards, lined with palm trees. The sea breeze hitting my face was the icing on the topping. Right behind me and my boys, Gambini’s security made sure to let his guests in and keep any outsiders out. Three of his goons were manning the gate, facing a rather long queue of cars.
“Don’t you guys wish you owned this place even for a day?” I asked, strolling down the pathway between Rocco and Julian.
“A summer’s day? Yeah.” Rocco paused as a group of old people, including an elderly Don, passed by. “A winter’s day? Hell, no. It’s too cold around here.”
“What would I do with a house this size?” Julian said. “Give me Gambini’s money for a day. I’ll buy Roselli’s house and his whole fucking block, just for the hell of it.”
I chuckled. “I like your thinking, man.”
“Winslow!” I heard someone calling out my name behind me. It was a prissy voice I didn’t hear often, but I recognized it, and my hackles rose as Brad Connors, Don Roselli’s consigliere, came into view. “Don Roselli and Don Gambini wish to speak with you. They’re waiting for you inside.”
Great.
“He’ll be right there.” Rocco answered for me as Julian pulled me aside.
“You know what this is about,” he said in a low voice.
“Baxter. Gambini’s still butthurt about the death of that waste of space.” And as the hot head of the trio, he was eyeing me for it.