Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Understood,” Tony says, looking grim. “You think they killed Giacomo around here? Or back at the friend’s place?”
“Friend’s place,” Niccolo says. “He would’ve been watching her there.”
“They could’ve taken him captive first. Tortured him to death.”
“Maybe that’s how they knew about Denny. He could’ve given up Denny’s name.”
“That’s enough,” I say before they start speculating more. “Giacomo was a good man. I don’t care what he might’ve said while being tortured, if that’s even what happened. Any one of us will tell those bastards whatever they want to hear if they start ripping out our fingernails. Now, focus up, because we don’t have time to get distracted.”
The guys hold out their palms as I drop some go-pills in their hands. It’s dextroamphetamine, meant for controlling ADHD but great before a fight like this one. It’ll keep us focused and jacked to the tits, fear banished, aggression maxed out, completely in the moment. It’s the edge we need to take down these bastards. I take two and wash it down with water, and the stuff starts working fast. My pulse rockets and my pupils dilate, and soon Tony and Niccolo are jostling their legs like junkies as their pills take hold.
I get out of the car and the guys follow. We could break down the gate and go in like stormtroopers out of our fucking minds on the pills, buzzing and bloodthirsty, murder in our hearts, death in our blood, but that’d only get us riddled with bullets. The Russians may be cowards, but they’re still a mafia family, and they have enough gear and manpower to counter any direct offensive we throw at them.
Which means we have to go in quiet and sideways.
The fence around the property extends in all directions. I skirt around the wall, moving fast and staying low, hoping there aren’t any external cameras watching as we slip from one tree to the next—and if there are, that the security guy tasked with watching them is too busy jerking off to porn or something. We reach a shady spot in a quiet little nook toward the back of the house when I finally give them the OK sign.
Tony goes first. He uses his padded and armored forearms to sweep glass off the top of the wall then throws a thick moving blanket over iron spikes. It’s not easy, but he manages to get up there with me and Niccolo boosting him, and Niccolo goes next. I give him a leg up and Tony grabs his arms and hefts him over.
I go last. I take a running leap, hit the wall, and barely catch Tony’s hands, but he hauls me up as my feet scramble for purchase. I throw myself to the other side and land in an undignified heap, but it’s still quiet, and we’re through.
Tony leaps down and helps me up, grinning. “That was one ugly fall, boss.”
“I’m a mafia killer, not a fucking mountain climber. I’m good at the other stuff.”
Niccolo snorts. “Tell yourself that.”
“Quiet, assholes.” I cock my head, listening. “You hear anything?”
“Silence,” Tony says. “Should we wait?”
“Give it a minute. I want to know if we tripped an alarm before we go stomping toward the house.” We spread out into the underbrush, rifles up and ready, but nothing happens. We wait ten minutes, patient and painful, and the whole time I’m thinking about Kacia. Each second we spend delaying this rescue is another second she spends trapped inside that place. I don’t know how they’re treating her, but if she’s injured, if she’s hurt or tortured, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. Niccolo and Tony will have to get her out because I’ll be too busy mowing down every Russian I can find.
This is all for her. My wife, my woman. I never should’ve let her get on that plane, but I was distracted by my father, conflicted by my loyalty, and driven crazy by my responsibilities. But I owe her more than I realize, at least for opening me up to the world again and making me see that I can be more than a mafia son. I can be more than a good soldier. I can be more than the Famiglia.
I can have a family of my own.
“Let’s go.” I gesture at the boys and we start forward, walking silently through the leaves and trees, drifting like ghosts. We move up an incline until we reach the edge of the woods within sight of the house. It stands in the middle of a perfectly manicured lawn and glows with exterior and interior lights like a beacon in the darkness.
Guards move around the perimeter. Some stand near the back door, watching the darkness. Some are on patrol. I don’t think any are in the woods, but it’s hard to tell.
“Niccolo, count?”
“Six guards,” he says, squinting through his night-vision goggles. “No, make that seven.”