Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Governor’s son.
So Moby Dick’s a governor’s son. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, my strong intuition. There’s more at play here than rival mafia. The Rossi family’s huge, and well-respected, and that matters…
I quickly text Mario on the burner phone we got especially for this kind of information.
Me: It’s me
Mario: hi. Don’t think for a second I’m letting you get away without talking to me.
Another eye roll but he can’t see me.
Me: I found some crucial information on your new guy right now
Mario: Spill.
Me: You sure these are burner phones?
Mario: 100%
Me: Moby Dick is a governor’s son
At first, he doesn’t respond, then the next minute I brace as a slew of texts come all at once.
Mario: How do you know this? Where did you get your intel? Did you tell anyone? Who told you?
Me: Spoke with another spectator. She said he’s a douche. She said to watch him because he’s gotten away with terrible things, like assaulting women without prosecution
Mario: Motherfucker. Find out which car he’s driving. Call Santo.
I look around until I see another flock of women, sitting and talking excitedly about the upcoming race. I walk up to one of the women who sits at the edge of them.
“Ciao,” I say with a little smile. She waves back. “Which car here is Moby Dick? You know?”
She nods, all smiles. “Ah, Americano. No English.” She points to a shorter woman with graying hair on the side of the road sipping out of a travel mug. “Americano.”
I nod my thanks and head over to her.
“Ciao,” I say haltingly. She looks up at me with a cold expression.
“Don’t speak Italian to me,” she says in an English accent. Mario’s admonition that not all mobs are the same comes back to me, just like there’s no American or British accent… I swallow and force another smile.
“Hi there,” I say in a Southern drawl, tempted to flip her off. “Curious, do you know which car is Moby Dick’s?”
She snorts. “Of course.” She points to a vibrant blue Camaro. “But if you think you’re hooking up with him to get whatever the fuck you want, he’s not interested in the likes of you.” She turns away haughtily.
“Oh, no, not at all,” I say with another forced smile. “I’m happy to leave him to you.”
I’ve spoken to several people now, and the fact that I’m asking around for information’s going to get around. I quickly weave my way through the crowd until I hit a grove of trees at the back, duck behind an enormous cypress and swap out my wig for another. I’m tucking in the loose ends of my hair when I hear voices behind me. I step in the opposite direction around the tree with my head held high. I learned long ago that walking confidently is less likely to cause suspicion.
I hear the squeal of race cars and the screams of fans in front of me. The race is about to begin. My heart beats faster as I pull out the burner phone and scroll through the few contacts Mario gave me. I pull up Santo and shoot him a text.
Me: It’s me. M told me to text you
Santo: Yes. What is it?
Me: We’ve figured out a part of the puzzle. He’s a son of a governor, Boston was mentioned, and he drives a blue Camaro
Santo: Makes sense. Governor Peterson’s son Lucas had a run-in with Mario and got pissed at him. We expected pushback. Stand by.
I see Mario’s yellow Ferrari and the blue Camaro take off. They’re a good deal apart from one another for the first few seconds, right before they disappear around a bend.
With trembling hands, I look up the governor’s son, try to acquaint myself with who he is. Lucas Peterson. Twenty years old, goes to college in Boston. Accused but not convicted of assault two years ago.
My eyes go wide when I see Twitter and Instagram posts from him mentioning Mario by name. I blink.
Mario. He mentioned Mario. Why?
The posts are vague and nondescript, mentioning “dirty, underhanded tactics,” though commenters below the posts mention not stirring the pot with the Rossis. Cold fear grips the back of my neck.
Mario must’ve won a race against him, and it comes as no surprise that Lucas Peterson’s a sore loser. He’s stirred up shit online, and now… now…
I shove my phone back in my pocket. I’ve gathered from research and from what Mario told me that this particular race will begin with three loops around the track and a final fourth sprint to the finish line, which ends precariously at the edge of a cliff. Of course.
Dread begins to curl its way through my belly, and I don’t understand why. Still, I feel like I’m on the edge of a breakthrough, that we’re going to find answers all the way here in Italy.