Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
It didn’t take long after his marathon phone calls to complain about the town car dent and the supposed “plot against him” for him to make his way into the bedroom, muttering to himself about revenge, then falling into bed fully clothed, for me to finally be able to take a deep breath.
I wasted no time, though.
I grabbed the heels and ran them down to the lobby, then made my way back upstairs to prepare myself something more substantial to eat.
I was twirling the pasta on my fork in front of the window overlooking the street when I saw a figure move out of the shadows.
And look right up at me.
Not at the building.
At me.
I was sure of it.
Like he knew exactly where I might be.
The streetlight to his side illuminated a darkly handsome face, and black and gray tattoos that immediately had me stiffening.
Because I knew them.
They were the same ones from the side street.
They belonged to the man who had saved me from a beating.
Sure, he could have just… followed us home.
But that didn’t explain how he knew which apartment was ours in the very large building we lived in.
A strange prickling sensation worked its way up my spine. And I knew. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he hadn’t been on that side street by accident. That he wasn’t at my home by coincidence.
He was there for a reason.
Likely one involving Eren.
Which made all his phone calls less the ranting and raving of an unhinged lunatic, and more rational conclusions.
As I watched, the man pointed to himself, then me, then made the phone gesture.
We need to talk.
We didn’t.
We absolutely didn’t.
The last thing in the whole world I needed was to get involved in Eren’s illegal business.
Why, then, did I lift a finger, begging for a minute, then turn around and rush into the kitchen, getting the pad of paper I used to draft the grocery list, and scribble on it?
One word.
The one place Eren wouldn’t have me followed. Because it was in the apartment building.
Gym.
I held up the sign to the window, wondering if he could even see it from where he was on the ground.
But he raised his phone, seeming to snap a picture, then blow it up to read what I’d written.
His gaze lifted, holding up his arm, and tapping his wrist.
Time.
Eren was having his brothers over for a meeting the next afternoon. I’d heard him saying as much on the phone.
It was the perfect time to slip away.
So I held up two fingers.
And it was done.
I probably just signed my own death certificate.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brio
“Her name is Ezmeray,” Salvatore told me the next morning as he walked around the pharmacy, dropping various shit into his basket.
Salvatore had just been let out of prison about a year before, but had quickly risen in the ranks of the Family.
First, because he took his time like a man. He didn’t roll over and snitch like so many motherfuckers do these days. Omertà wasn’t dead. It was alive and well in men like Salvatore.
Second, because he had a special set of skills when it came to the Family business. The kind of skills that left him with the nickname of Surgeon.
‘Cause, you see, when you go to the hospital for something like a gunshot wound, there are usually a lot of questions. The kind you can’t answer without bringing up Family business.
So we lucked out by having Salvatore who not only knew how to deal with nasty fucking wounds, but seemed to enjoy that shit.
When he tossed four boxes of gauze into the basket, my gaze slid up to him, brows pinching.
“Are we expecting trouble?” I asked.
“What? No. Well, not anymore. I’m restocking. Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Anthony got stabbed last night.”
“The fuck? What?” I asked, automatically reaching for my phone even though I knew I hadn’t missed any texts. I’d been on my phone a lot all morning.
Looking at pictures.
“Yeah, took a serrated blade to the gut. It was nasty.”
“Who?” I asked, already itching for the feel of blood on my fingers.
“When they know, I’m sure you will know, man,” Salvatore said, shooting me a smirk, knowing that there was no way whoever had done it was going to be left breathing once they got a name.
That explained why I was getting the lowdown from Salvatore, not Emilio. Who was likely with his little brother.
It seemed weird that Lorenzo had put Salvatore on an intel case when he’d been locked up for fifteen years.
“Anyway,” Salvatore said, choosing between two types of antibiotic creams. “Ezmeray Polat. Formerly Ezmeray Kaya. She’s twenty-four, soon to be five. Her parents were and are Ayaz and Yara Kaya who immigrated over here from Turkey a couple years before Ezmeray was born. You’ve been stabbed before,” he broke off, pointing toward the tape selections. “Which tape bothered you less?”