Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
1
Franco
The warehouse I enter is cold. My suit doesn’t offer much warmth from the cold East Coast winters, and when I’m working on this side of the country, I keep myself aware by reveling in the iciness. It allows me to feel the rigidness of my blood. Soon enough, once the job is done, I’ll fly home to L.A.
It’s been years since I made my first kill. But with each person who falls victim to me, I know it’s the only thing in my life that makes sense. To fulfill my father’s dream, to step into his shoes and make sure that people know if they fuck with us, they won’t survive.
No mercy.
No second chances.
When my cousin told me about this place, I thought he was making shit up, but as soon as I enter with Giovanni and Matteo flanking me, I can’t deny that Lucio was right. Even though he’s a Russo, I trust him more than his godforsaken brother, Cristiano.
There’s a stench in the space, something you get accustomed to when you’re in my line of work. It no longer bothers me, the darkness, the filth. It’s life.
“Franco Moretti?” The asshole knows it’s me when I step into the smaller room in the left corner of the warehouse. Lucio told me the man isn’t going anywhere and when I reach the nark, I find him bound to a chair in the middle of the large open space. The office we’re in is large, but the smell of urine and shit overpowers the space. “Please, we can pay.” His voice grates slowly over my skin. The movement is as if he’d taken a blunt razor and attempted to shave me.
I hate it.
I loathe it.
But I stalk closer because he’s staring at me like I’m his savior. I’ve never been one and I don’t intend to be a fucking holy man now. I watch him in silence, pinning him with a glare. This asshole thinks he can lie, steal, and cheat the Nostra. That wasn’t his first mistake, though. He used our shipment to deal in people, women. That’s something I don’t condone, and it’s something I ensure never happens in my organization. I may not be a good man, but I don’t sell people.
“I-I’ll g-give y-you a-a-anything,” he utters, and something about his fear makes me want to shatter every morsel of hope he has. Not because I’m evil, but because I’m standing here in front of my brothers, because I love the anguish on my mark’s face. I need them to see what this life is really like. I don’t sugarcoat shit.
“You know, Bruno”—I turn to him, leaning on my elbow on my knee as I press my shiny black shoe on his cock—“I hate when people lie.” I’m posing like a fucking pirate on a barrel of rum.
“P-Please,” he utters once more, but I bring the knife to his chin and slowly slice away a chunk of flesh, which falls onto his stomach. The blood that splatters over my Italian dress shoes only makes me smile. When I was younger, I would lose my shit, I’d curse, and lose my cool, but life has made me colder. I’ve learned to restrain my anger, to keep calm.
“You’re getting worse,” Giovanni mutters as he lifts the flesh and places it inside the container. Once the lid clicks closed, I glance at my brother and chuckle. “I’m serious, Franco.”
“Far parte del lavoro, fratello.” I smile, telling my brother that it’s part of the job. Pressing my foot down harder on the man’s crotch, I listen to his wails of pain and agony, but it doesn’t make me ease up because he doesn’t deserve it. You fuck with the Nostra, you lose your life or your dick. It depends on how I’m feeling that day and what your crimes were. When blood pools on the floor where the chair is situated.
I watch my victim shudder as he bleeds out. I’ve ensured it’s slow, painful, and as he splutters, I can’t help reveling in the control I have over others. Things I want, I take. It’s how I’ve always been. Those around me know I don’t stop until the thing I’ve set my eye on is within my grasp.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it, knowing who it is. I’ve been expecting his call for days, weeks even. I know he’ll call back or leave me a scathing message.
“Get this piece of trash out of here,” I order my brother, Gio, while I wipe my blade with the clean white handkerchief. Tossing the material on the floor, I turn and walk out the door. Once outside, I pull my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen. There’s a message from my cousin. Lucio Russo is the younger brother of my cousin, Luciano. Since the passing of their father only a year ago, I’ve been stepping in to help with their organization. Loading weapons onto containers and shipping them anywhere in the world.