Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 111768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
"What did I tell you, Armando?" I hold the knife to his throat, the action making him tense and stop moving so much, so not to cut himself. "You let my wife hear you and I'll have no choice but to slit your fucking throat."
He tries to quiet his cries, going mostly silent, but the tears continue to fall. I hate it, the sight of someone crying, be it man or woman, but especially men who are supposed to be a part of the family. Men who pledge to live by the gun shouldn't fall apart the second it's hinted they might die by it, too.
Or in this case, by knife, which arguably, when I'm wielding it, might hurt a hell of a lot more.
Armando Donati was one of Ray's street soldiers, the kind who did dirty work, who roamed in the trenches and wasn't opposed to bending rules off the books to win wars. Kidnapping, extortion, and assault were his specialties, as well as the average every day drive-by shooting. The parts of the life that had no honor. The parts of the life that none of them talked about. Armando had a knack for making a hit look more like a random act. Ray kept eyes and ears all over the street, and most of his information came straight from Armando and his band of bloody thieves.
So, naturally, the second gunfire lit up my father's business, I thought of him.
"No screaming," I tell him. "If you want any chance of going home, you'll listen. You got me?"
He nods frantically.
"Good."
Using the knife, I slit across the duct tape on his mouth, watching as blood flows around the hole, the blade slicing into his lip. He grunts, letting out a strangled cry as more tears fall, but he doesn't scream. He sucks in a large gulp of air through his mouth, immediately begging the second he exhales.
"Please, Vitale, it wasn't me! I swear to God! I swear on my wife, my children! I swear on the family! I didn't do it!"
I want to jab the knife into his larynx to shut him up, but instead I clamp my free hand down around his mouth and nose, squeezing. He starts to thrash, but settles down the second I say, "Don't."
He can't breathe now. I know he can't. His face is turning red, his eyes bugging out.
"I know it wasn't you," I say. "So don't waste your breath trying to explain that to me, or next time I'll take your breath away permanently."
I let go, and again, he gasps for air. His blood is on my hand and I absently rub it on my pant leg, not realizing what I've done until it's too late.
Shit.
I'll have to burn them now.
Get rid of the evidence.
He's quiet this time. Well, he's hyperventilating, and sobbing, but at least he isn't trying to beg anymore.
Armando lives in Hell's Kitchen, not far from my father's deli, in an apartment above the convenience store Ray used to own, the same one I stole from when I was sixteen years old. I stopped there on my way home to grab a newspaper… and I just happened to grab my old acquaintance while I was at it.
I know he didn't do it. I know, because he was sitting in a recliner, in his boxers, watching soap operas like the little bitch he is. But just because he didn't do it doesn't mean he wouldn't know who did. His kind are like wolves… they run in packs.
I'm gunning for the alpha.
The one brave enough to come after me.
"I want to know who shot up the block in Hell's Kitchen this afternoon," I say, continuing before he can give me the 'it wasn't me' spiel. "The streets talk, Armando, and you're about as close to a gutter rat as there is in this business. You hear it all. Ray's people are dropping like flies. Everyday, it's someone else. But somehow, you're still alive, and I can probably guess why. So I want to know who's behind it… I want to know who you're working for now."
"I'm not—" The words slip from his lips instinctively before he silences them with a gulp of air, swallowing back the lie he's trained to say. We're all taught to deny any involvement whatsoever, but he knows better. He knows giving me the lie will only get him killed. "Look, I haven't met the guy… he hasn't come to me yet, I swear! I'm nobody. I'm nothing. He probably doesn't even know who I am! But people talk, you know… they talk, just like you said. A guy came to me last week, came to me about some information, said he heard that I might know some things. He asked about you, but I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know!"
"Who was the guy?"
"I don't know his name."
As soon as the denial is out of his mouth, the knife slams down, right into the meaty part of his thigh. I yank it right back out, again clamping my hand down around his mouth and nose as he lets out a shriek of pain, muzzling the sound. His face turns bright red, and I let go, immediately regretting it when he screams, "Joe! They call him Fat Joe!"
He catches his mistake right away and starts pleading quietly, sobbing, as a stream of blood runs from the wound in his thigh. It's not much. Nothing he can't easily survive. I hold the knife up, telling him to be silent, as the damn dog starts barking in the kitchen, hearing us out here.
I listen for a moment, making sure Karissa hadn't been disturbed. The dog stops barking finally, giving up on finding out what's going on outside.
"Who does this Joe guy work for?" I ask when I'm sure we won't be interrupted. I need to get this over with and get my ass back upstairs. "And don't tell me you don't know, because next time, I'm aiming for the artery."