Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Turning to face him, I unfastened my jacket and strode to the couch. Tommy filed in behind him, the flames from the fire flickering over the grim expression on his face.
“I had an interesting phone call this evening,” I started as Jackson took a seat.
“Was it the Irish groveling for their fucking lives?” he asked, a twisted smile pulling at his lips.
“Grovelling implies remorse, and our dismembered soldier would suggest a distinct lack of that, Jackson.”
He growled at me like a damn dog.
“Well? Don’t keep us in suspense,” Tommy said, moving over to the bar to make a drink.
“It was Sergio Donato.” The leader of the Chicago family contacting me…it was almost unexpected. Almost.
We stayed out of Outfit business, and though the Chicago family had once enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship with the previous “management” of the old Famiglia here in New York, we had long since branded ourselves the black sheep of the Italian Mafia. However, their interest provided an opportunity. One where I kept my hands squeaky clean.
“Apparently, he’s also lost product to the Irish in the last few weeks.” I took a seat on the opposite couch and propped my ankle on my knee. “He proposes an alliance.”
Tommy sat on the arm, swirling the amber liquor around the glass. “Why? The Outfit and the Irish Mob have fought for decades, and they’ll keep fighting—”
“Unless the scale of power were weighted in one of their favor.” I lifted a brow. “Donato wants coke. We have the secure shipping routes. He doesn’t.”
I’d already thought of all the ways we could take advantage of this and run them past Nero. He was technically the boss, but Nero was built for war, not peace. He would paint the streets of Chicago red with a smile on his face if I let him, and that was one thing I could not risk. I’d worked too hard. There was only so much the senators and district attorney I paid off could overlook before suspicion would fall on them.
“For now, we lend him manpower, guns. They do the dirty work, handle the mob while we take very little risk. In exchange, we sell them coke at a ten percent profit.”
“You know we make fifty everywhere else.” Tommy frowned.
I cocked a brow. “That’s why we won’t actually be upholding that part.”
“You’re going to fuck them over,” Tommy groaned.
I was going to do more than fuck them over, but I kept that to myself. They just needed to focus on the next steps, not the next twenty. My long-term plans were often susceptible to change depending on how successful the short-term ones were.
A twisted smile covered Jackson’s face. “I don’t care, as long as I get to kill someone. Two years of sitting around… Fucking peace,” he mumbled under his breath.
Tommy snorted. “Since when do you just sit around? You tortured that guy and cut off his head two days ago.”
Jackson sniffed, folding his arms over his chest until his holster looked like it was about to rupture beneath his bulk. “It’s not the same. No one fights back anymore.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, praying for patience. “That’s kind of the point.”
“So, we just form an alliance with The Outfit, and that’s it? It’ll all get handled.” Tommy pressed before tipping back his drink.
Anger lanced through me at the thought of what that alliance would cost me, what Sergio Donato demanded. It was like lava moving through my veins, but this was not an opportunity I would pass up. If I were going to agree to his terms, I was getting a lot more out of it than I knew he was willing to give. That was the problem with trying to chain a lion while he seemed weak. A lion was never weak, and he would tear out your throat. I would bleed Donato dry when it suited me, and his precious alliance couldn’t save him.
“I’m handling it.”
* * *
An hour later, I was alone, and the ping of my phone was loud in the silence of my apartment. I opened the message from one of my contacts. I’d asked him to get me everything he could find on one Miss Emilia Donato, niece of Sergio Donato. The information on her was barely more than a few sentences. Nineteen years old. Pulled out of some fancy school at age sixteen, then home-schooled. Two brothers, both Made. The details of her life were scarce.
Which meant I knew absolutely nothing about my soon-to-be wife. The thought did not sit well, but this was Donato’s price and one I couldn’t negotiate my way out of for once. This was the old way of sealing alliances, a half-assed guarantee forged upon the notion that corrupt men would have a degree of honor and not turn on “family.” But family was not a ring and false vows or even blood. Family was those willing to die beside you.