Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“You know if you take him out, more will follow,” Savage points out.
Burton shrugs. “I’ll worry about that when it happens. Stefano has the most sway in the family right now and he’s trying to set himself up as Don, but there is still an internal struggle there. Without him, it could be years before the rest get their acts together.”
This feels too fucking convenient. I really, really don't fucking like this.
But to my amazement, Savage doesn’t kick his ass straight out. “Alright, I’ll take it to Hellfire. If he’s on board, we’ll play ball. Deal?” He holds out his hand.
Burton looks almost as surprised as I feel, but he nods and shakes Savage's hand. “Deal.”
Fuck, I hope Savage knows what the fuck he's doing. If he doesn't, that's gonna be all our asses on the line.
30
PAIGE
The Fabbri offices are bigger and fancier than I expected. From everything I’ve heard, they're new in the city, but if they have something like this and are laundering millions through local businesses, they definitely have money coming from somewhere.
The building has a glass and marble facade, with windows tinted darkly enough that it's impossible to look in. Over the impressive entrance, there's a sign that reads, “Fabbri Holdings and Trading Co.” A door guard in a simple black suit stands outside. He’s wearing shades and looking like his nose was broken at some point. The guys drive right up onto the sidewalk and leave their bikes parked in front of the doors.
“You can’t park there!” The guard snaps, but Savage ignores him.
I walk right into the lion's den between Crank and Poe, who both have an iron grip on my upper arms like they're guiding a prisoner. Savage leads the way, money in hand, obviously the leader of our group.
And bringing up the rear is Detective Burton, dressed like a biker and making the spot between my shoulder blades itch. I don’t like having him behind me. I don’t trust him. Maybe the Outlaw Sons are rubbing off on me, but I feel like I’d rather have the upfront violence of the bikers than his hidden agenda crap. Even dressed to match, Burton sticks out like a sore thumb to me. Something in the way he carries himself, I think. You can put the cop in biker leathers, but you can't make him move like one. The real bikers have a casual air of danger about them, like they're always a moment away from turning themselves into a serious problem if things aren't going the way they want. Burton doesn't have that. He's too stiff, too insecure. It's like he's radiating cop, no matter how he dresses.
And well out of sight, though I know they're there, are Burton's people, waiting for his signal. And also waiting are Hellfire and the Sons. Because, as Hellfire said, “I’ll use them if they want to volunteer to be meat shields, but I’m not fucking trusting them.”
I’m glad there’s backup, but I’m still nervous. This is the first time I’m involved with something that has an actual plan and it feels like hunting for bears by crawling into the bear cave, instead of just waiting outside to deal with it there. Apparently, Stefano’s apartment is on the top floor of this building though, so catching him outside is rare.
Otherwise, the building is disappointingly boring. The reception could be confused with any other corporate reception. Leather chairs, a receptionist behind a large counter, and card-activated gates that register the guests coming and leaving. Savage approaches the counter, where a thin man in a blue suit is talking on a hands-free headset. He looks up as Savage comes close, eyeing him like something just hauled out of a dumpster. I'm half surprised he doesn't physically hold his nose, but when he speaks, his tone is flat and professional.
“Mr. Savage, I presume. Mr. Fabbri is expecting you.”
“Does it ever get confusing when everyone's named Mr. Fabbri?” Crank asks no one in particular, a levity in his tone that doesn't reach his eyes. “Or is it like, Mr. Fabbri the second, Mr. Fabbri the third, Mr. Fabbri Junior?”
The corners of Poe's mouth twitch, but nobody laughs and the receptionist sends him a death glare. I think he's just eager to get the riff raff out of his lobby. “Please, have a seat and Mr. Fabbri will send someone down to bring you inside.”
None of the guys sit. Probably not wanting to get distracted and caught in a position they can't react quickly from. Poe gives my arm a comforting squeeze.
Five minutes later when I'm starting to wonder if keeping us waiting is on purpose and sitting down wouldn't be so bad after all, the elevator dings and a group of black-suited men come out. They could be brothers, all of them dark-haired, same bodybuilder frame, and identical suits. If one of them is the Fabbri we’re looking for, he doesn't stick out from the rest in any notable way. The man in front gestures at the receptionist, who pushes a button behind the counter. The security gates swing open.