Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
The parking lot is pretty much empty except for a couple of trucks with empty trailers. Parking my car under the only street lamp, I step out locking my car up. Just because this is upper Manhattan doesn’t mean there aren’t wanderers looting about that wouldn’t take advantage of my car sitting here by itself. The smell of fish and dirty water hang heavy in the air and I lift my head into the breeze as I make my way down the wooden-planked pier. During the day, the hues of blue and browns are more than my eyes can process. Which is why I prefer the night.
Black.
Darkness.
Those are things I can comprehend. I find calm in the times most people fear. Passing boat after boat, bucket after bucket left on the docks with fish guts, or stale water that sat in the sun all day, I see the DeAngelo yacht parked all the way in the back of the docks. Its golden glow of lights like a siren I can’t help but be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
A man stands at the back of the boat, he looks inconspicuous wearing jeans and a button-up shirt. Just a guy out enjoying the warm night air on a boat. But hear me when I say if you try and step on that boat without permission, Matteo will turn into James fucking Bond and take you out before you even think about stepping foot on the Mistress. That’s what my great, great grandfather named the boat, the Mistress. Because he always spent his time on it and my great, great-grandmother thought he was away cheating on her night after night. She even hired out to have the woman he was messing around with killed only to find out it was a boat. His mistress was a boat. That was long ago though. Two years ago my grandfather passed on this very boat and my father took his place. It depends which life you live in to understand his position. To outsiders, he’s the boss of our family business. To the Italian American gangsters, he’s the Don; The godfather of life as we see it. Famously known as the Sicilian mafia stepping in an embossing over our families decades before my time.
“Mr. DeAngelo,” Matteo mutters, stepping to the left to allow me on board. He looks so young to be guarding, to be a part of our famiglia. Then again, I was ten when my father began molding me for the family empire.
“Thank you, Matteo.” I pat him on the back and take a step down onto the carpeted entrance, my Dolce and Gabbana shoes quite the contrast to his Nikes. Walking through the sliding glass doors, plush couches and golden fixtures make up the expensive lipstick and rouge of the Mistress. I hear men laughing from down below, the smell of cigar smoke conveying the presence of others. I head down below finding my father sitting at a table with my uncle Tony, Leo, and Gio. For a big boat, they make the space look small. All of them are overweight with their stomachs pushing into the table, Ashton cigars in each of their mouths, and glasses filled with the finest spirits. Tony always wears ugly Hawaiian shirts and has lips as big as a fish. Leo and Gio wear suits of the best quality; Armani. Gio always wears a hat, and Leo is younger and always looks flushed in the face. All three are my dad’s left-hand men, helping him make decisions, and keeping him company when he wants it. It reminds me of the pretty girl in high school who surrounds herself with others who are less attractive or popular, thus making her shine more and feel more precious. But that’s not the only reason my dad earned his respect and power. I’ve seen him aim a gun and kill two men at once with a single bullet, their bodies falling to the ground without even a flick of guilt.
“Mio figlio!” My son, he says in Italian with excitement. “There you are!” My dad raises his hand ushering for me to sit down and grab some cards. I take a seat but raise my hand in refusal of playing a hand of poker. Last time I participated I cleaned my father out and he took it poorly, throwing the entire table over and pointing his Berretta at everyone to leave. I don’t need the dramatics tonight, I just need to know if he has any jobs.
My dad sits back in his chair, taking a large drag from his cigar and stares at me. Using his hand, he scratches at his big nose.
He’s going to make a big deal of me not wanting to play a hand.
“You got somewhere to be, Kieran?” His voice rough and angry.