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)
"Are you going to be alright?" he asks, looking me over, his smile growing as he does.
Smug son of a bitch.
"Fine," I say, nodding. "I'll be just fine."
Not if he doesn't stop stroking my knee, though.
Tingles are starting to course through the lower half of my body.
Is it possible to get off just from someone's touch?
Leaning over, he presses a brief, chaste kiss to my forehead, before he stands up.
"I don't know when I'll be home," he says. "You probably shouldn't wait up."
I want to ask him where he's going. I want to know what he's going to do.
I want to know exactly what he's up to.
I want to, but I don't ask, sitting in silence as he walks out.
He's right, you know… I'm not dense.
I could riddle out his plans if I really wanted to.
It takes a lot to get a meeting with the five families in New York.
Once upon a time, they used to have this thing called the Commission, the organization above all organizations. Membership was limited to the heads of the New York families, as well as the leaders out of Chicago and Buffalo. The seven most powerful men in the country met in secret, making decisions, like delinquency was a democracy. Wanted someone murdered? Ask the Commission. Wanted to invite someone into the fold? The Commission was the only way to go.
Acting without permission would get you killed.
The Commission went the way of all flesh years ago. You're lucky to find two bosses willing to meet now, much less all of them. There are still rules, though… rules they insist we all follow.
Rules I broke when I killed the head of one of those families.
Raymond Angelo.
I stand on the front porch of an old brick mansion in Long Island. It's still light out, but dusk is creeping up. There's a hint of orange in the cloudless blue skyline. It looks almost like fire burns off in the distance somewhere.
The whole neighborhood can see me standing here, but I'm not ready to move yet, even if I am about to be late for the biggest meeting of my life. Because I know there's a chance, when I walk through that door, that it might be the last time I walk anywhere.
They might carry me back out, wrapped in a tarp.
Drop my body in the East River.
I'd never resurface.
The fact that they called me here during daylight doesn't mean a thing. I'm no fool. I never have been. Someone shot up my father's business while the sun was brightly shining.
These men don't let the earth's rotation dictate their schedules.
The white wooden door cracks open as I stand there. I turn toward it right away, slipping the peppermint in my mouth over against my cheek, still sucking on it, trying to calm my nerves. A young burly guy stands in front of me, his face rippled with craters. One of Genova's enforcers, I imagine. The guy has a type. Beasts. I'm not as versed in the inner-workings of the other families, although I've done business with all of them a few times in the past.
They had a job and I handled it, no questions asked.
That was how they knew how to get ahold of me this afternoon, how they knew how to call me in for this meeting. Apparently my number was still on speed dial.
I probably ought to do something about that.
"They're waiting for you," the guy says, his voice high-pitched, almost comically so, like his balls haven't dropped yet. Or maybe they shoved them back inside whenever they fucked up his face. "Follow me."
Should've known they were watching.
No need to knock.
I don't like taking orders from people. I never even liked taking orders from Ray. I'm inclined to resist, but I push back my instinct, following the guy instead.
Now's probably not the time to try to assert my dominance.
Someone shuts the door behind us. Glancing back, I see a guy standing guard right inside the foyer, trying to stay out of sight. Huh. I turn back around, following the burly guy through the house, turning down a long hallway. The second I round the corner, I see we're heading straight for a set of doors, two more guys standing guard outside of them.
The AK-47s over their shoulders tell me these ones are purposely trying to make themselves seen.
Guess they're trying to intimidate me.
They open the set of doors as we approach, and my footsteps almost falter. I don't let them see my hesitation, though.
The guy guiding me stops on the outskirts, but I keep walking. There's no backing out now. It's a dining room of sorts, or more like a meeting space. A long mahogany table runs through it, chairs surrounding it.
Only four of them are filled.
One of the men, boss Frank Genova, waves toward the doors behind me. "Leave us."
Right away, the man obeys. Not surprising that Genova's taking the lead. It's his house this meeting is in. I just stand here, awaiting something. I'm not entirely sure how this is going to go.
Like I said, these meetings are rare.
Once the man vacates the room, Genova motions toward the table between us. "Gun."
I hold up my hands. "I don't have one."
His brow furrows. "You came unarmed?"
"I never carry a gun," I say, "but that doesn't mean I'm unarmed."
Everything's a weapon if you look at it the right way.
"Knives, then."
"None of those, either."
"Then what do you got?"
"Not much." I consider it for a moment. "Some spare change, a peppermint, my wallet... oh, and I've got a pen in my pocket."
He looks at me with disbelief. "A pen."
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a simple black ballpoint ink pen.
Probably cost a dollar.
"You gonna kill somebody with that?" he asks.
I shrug, setting it on the table. "You never know."
That seems to confuse him for a moment, as he stares at the pen, before he shakes it off. "It's just a formality anyway. Doesn't really matter. Go ahead, take a seat. Join us."
I sit down right across from them and regard Genova, the chairman of this defunct board, prepared to speak for everyone. I don't like the way he worded that.