Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Don’t get me wrong, I like what I do, but the promise issued to me the night my mother died had me convinced I’d be doing more with my life than hiding from my father and building furniture that costs thousands of dollars to buy but only nickels to make.
Tobias tried to keep his promise, but there’s only so much bureaucratic tape one agent can cut through before his resources eventually run dry. I don’t blame him for backpedaling on his promise. I’ve wanted to do the same for years, and it’s my flesh and blood I’m referencing.
Old Man Stephens only mixed things up because the furniture I restored on the sly during closing hours showcased my talents before I was halfway done with its restoration. On the agreement I kept his workshop location on the down-low from anyone in my family and that his clients referred to me by my middle name—JR for short—I can use the tools in his workshop in return for a seventy percent cut of the profits I make. The other restorers get a fifty-fifty share.
I’ve been called CJ since the day I was born, but the name cited on my birth certificate is Colum Junior. Although JR isn’t technically a part of my name, it maintains the two-letter theme my mother fought for when she succumbed to my father’s often unvoiced demands to have a son named after him, so JR doesn’t bother me.
It’s even the name I used to book a room at a Motel Six two miles from here. That’s why I’m so shocked my father found me. CJ Petretti is practically a ghost, not to mention the fact he came to pull me into line himself. He usually sends his henchmen to do his bidding.
“W-what are you doing here, Pa?” After having a quiet word with my head to get with the fucking program, I wipe off the sweat coating my hands with my wood chipped coated jeans, then lock my eyes with a pair identical to mine in every way. All the Petretti boys have the same murky blue eyes. “I haven’t seen Roberto or Dimitri in mont—”
“I’m not here about them.” His snapped voice startles me, but I don’t let my bewilderment be seen on my face.
We’re in public, I remind myself. I’m safe here.
I can’t say the same thing for the home I walked out of with no intention to return the day I turned eighteen.
My wish to expand my wings outside the ‘family’s brethren’ is another reason I dropped out of university. The tuition was more than I could afford, and although I have handyman skills and a face that could help pay the bills each week, my budget couldn’t stretch far enough to add the equipment needed for a student with a hearing disability.
When my father’s thin, aloof lips part, I slant my good ear his way so he isn’t forced to repeat himself. I’ve grown accustomed to lip reading the past three years, but since he communicates more with grunts and mumbles, testing how good my skills have become on him could end disastrously.
He doesn’t take well to ignorance.
“I’m here about this.” He thrusts a piece of paper into my chest, his push so forceful, I’m shoved back two spots.
“W-What is it?”
Since I drop my focus to the official-looking document, I miss what he says, his words muffled by a wrathful snarl. The single sheet of paper appears to be a deed of some type, and the address cited at the top is for the exact location we’re standing.
When worry gurgles in my stomach, I snap my eyes back to my father. “O-Old Man Stephens owns this p-property outright.”
“He does,” my father agrees, his smug grin doubling. “But he hasn’t paid taxes in over a year.”
I shake my head, confused as to why he cares if Old Man Stephens is sidestepping the Internal Revenues Department. He’s done it for decades, so what gives him the right to highlight other business owners’ flaws as if he has none?
My jaw grits when I realize he isn’t referring to the IRS. He’s talking about the money he forces the businesses in Hopeton to pay the Petrettis to remain in their good books. It’s meant to be for protection, but everyone in this town knows the only people they need protection from are the Petrettis.
“H-How much does he owe?”
My endeavor to fix-up Old Man Stephens debt pleases my father so much he doesn’t whack me up the side of the head like he did a trillion times when I stuttered as a child. I’m not surprised. Dollar signs are flashing in his eyes. Nothing distracts him when money is on the line, especially when it doesn’t belong to him. “Too much for you to pay on his behalf.”
I scoff at his claims before marching to my ‘desk’ in the middle of the warehouse and throwing open the top drawer. The checkbook inside is the only proof I am Col Petretti’s son. I can’t forgo protocol at a bank, and since that is where the hefty restitution my father sought for damages to my hearing and ‘acute mental psychosis’ was deposited, it has remained open dispute my multiple attempts to commence a new identity.