Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“That’s the thing. We have to drag it out,” he replied. “Eric’s doing his best to get their identities, and once we know who they are, where they live, how many loved ones they have, we can count on getting more reliable intel. Right now, they’re too cocky—they don’t think we’ve got squat.” He took one more drag from the smoke before putting it out on the floor. “I’m going to give Eric two weeks. Then I’ll send the crew to Europe, and we’ll get started with the interrogation. Before then, let them stew in their shit. Two weeks of silent treatment and the bare amount of nutrition will fuck with their heads.”
That could be fun.
I wanted to get into their brains.
“All right, it’s a plan.” I slipped off the desk and flinched at the twinge of pain in my side. I was too stiff too. Wasn’t I a little young for that crap? “What time do you need me tonight?”
“I don’t. You’ve been working around the clock and taken a bit too much blow for my comfort,” he told me bluntly. “You’re off for the next forty-eight hours, and if my father calls me to say you’re not resting, I won’t be happy. I mean it, Ford.”
I took a deep breath and crackled my knuckles to rein it in, because holy fuck, I was apparently living with a rat.
I had nothing to say in response, and I didn’t wanna get into it with Finn, so I nodded curtly and left the office. But before I got out of here, I wanted a quick word with the Italians.
What was this, a syndicate that got shit done or a day care? I knew when to stop. I could handle it. I didn’t need a boss—who was the same age as me—telling me I had to get some rest. Christ.
I stopped in front of one of the men and removed the burlap sack over his head.
Nice. Someone had given the guy a black eye, a split eyebrow, and a busted lip. Hell, maybe it was me. This was the man I’d chased down.
He took a couple heavy breaths and stared up at me, eyes a bit unfocused, hair damp and plastered to his forehead.
“I make you a single vow,” I told him quietly. “I won’t dangle freedom in front of your face. I won’t promise I’ll let you go in exchange for information, because we can get that without you.” I bent over a little and planted my hands on my thighs. “You killed my nephew’s father before he had the chance to meet him. You murdered one of my best friends, my boss’s big brother—you ruined his father. You killed—don’t even try to talk, you fucking scum.” I gripped his jaw the second he tried to spit something in Italian. “I don’t care that it wasn’t you personally. You’re all the same. You’re here to get rid of us, you started this war against us, you showed no fucking mercy when you murdered, kidnapped, and tore up families. And I will give you the exact same treatment.” I tightened my grip on his jaw until he grunted breathlessly in pain. “No one will know what happened to you. You won’t die with honor or grace intact. You won’t get a funeral. You’ll be in suffering, and you’ll be completely alone.”
Before he could say anything—or spit in my face—I pulled the bag down over his head again and made my way to the exit.
Chapter 11
“You heading out?” Shan asked.
I nodded and adjusted my cuff links. “You know how it is, I gotta show my face every now and then.” Ironically, I was going to do the opposite in a couple hours. “What about you?”
He returned to his magazine and looked quite comfortable on the couch. “I might head out to Finn and Emilia’s for dinner.”
More rookie lies? Tsk, Shannon.
He’d been acting anxious all day. Or maybe anxious was the wrong word. Restless. He’d paced a lot, and he’d showered twice.
I still had a few minutes before I had to get going, so I poured myself a gin and tonic and sat down on the couch.
I took a sip and watched him pretend to read his magazine on French wines. “You seem like you’re feeling a little better these days.”
He’d gotten dressed in proper clothes every morning the past two weeks, for instance. And by morning, I meant when he woke up around noon.
I hadn’t heard him getting upset on the couch in several weeks either.
“I’m trying to learn how to live with my grief,” he murmured and flipped a page. “It helps that I have a new hobby.”
Really? I hadn’t seen him do anything—well, except for the working out. “You mean going to the gym?”
“No, trying to understand you better,” he responded. I lifted my brows. “It hit me when I met your friend last month—Alfie. Your behavior toward certain things started adding up—”