Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
But it’s the only way to drown out the demons in my mind.
“Not going to like what?” I ask.
He’s standing in the doorway, looking grim. “What I’m about to tell you.”
“Are we going to play games, or are you going to spit it out?” I snarl.
“We think Matteo is missing.”
“Missing?” My jaw clenches tight.
He’s a good lieutenant. Sharp, cautious, proactive. He’s been with the Family for a decade now, and he’s been loyal down to his bones for every second of that time.
“Taken, probably.”
“That’s a lot of uncertainty, Claudio. I need better than that,” I reply.
He nods and sinks to a seat on another bench. “The eyewitnesses were civilians, so they’re a little shaken up by what they saw, and the information isn’t one-hundred-percent reliable. But it appears that a group of armed men stormed into the laundromat uptown we use as the front for the cocaine packaging operation.”
“The one Matteo oversees,” I fill in.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“So someone just barged into my territory and dragged out one of my best lieutenants.”
Claudio nods and folds his hands in his lap.
I eye him, waiting for him to fill in the last piece of crucial information.
“Who the fuck did it?” I demand.
He sighs once more. “The eyewitnesses said they heard Irish accents.”
I close my eyes and breathe against the rising tide of fury in my chest. Fucking Frank.
I’ll have his fucking head on a chopping board for this.
Only when I’m calm enough to speak do I open my eyes again.
I’m done with playing games.
Done with this motherfucker taunting me.
He wants to get me riled up? Fine.
“We’re going to go get Matteo,” I say at once. “Now.”
An hour later, we’re in the woods outside a massive, sprawling estate. There’s a huge black gate encircling the property and greenery everywhere. But it’s the tiny details I notice most: cameras at strategic points. Guards walking precise circuits along the perimeter. Motion sensors attached to floodlights, ready to give away our position if we put one toe out of place.
Half a dozen of my best men are crouched behind me. We’re all armed and dressed in black tactical gear.
“Marcello, are you sure you want to do this?” Claudio asks.
“Stop trying to keep me from fighting,” I reply. “I’m your fucking Don. You answer to me.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, clearing his throat.
“You’re sure this is it?” I ask.
He nods. “All signs point to yes.”
I tighten my fist. This is it. Time to shove a knife up someone’s throat and break some skulls.
“One of our own, Matteo, is in there. Taken by our enemies,” I say in an effort to rile up my men too. “We’re gonna fucking get him back. Kill any Irish you find. Take no prisoners. Get what we came for. If you find Harper … call me. Am I understood?”
They respond as one, “Yes, Don Marcello.”
Satisfied, I pivot back to face the mansion. “Follow me.”
Timing our entrance precisely, we hop the fence one by one and land behind a huge hedge. The first patrol of security guards rounds the corner ahead. We have approximately fifteen seconds before the next one comes from the far courtyard.
I point and give my men the “go” signal.
We sprint to the fountain as a single unit. When we reach the hiding position, we all collapse prone on the ground.
The second patrol arrives. They’re scanning the darkness on high alert. We’re no more than ten feet away from them.
We rise up, three of us each grabbing one of the patrolmen from behind. Before they can so much as inhale to scream, we bury our knives in their throats.
Quick. Silent. Efficient.
Their bodies slump into our arms. Still moving in unison, we drag them underneath a nearby hedge and tuck them out of sight.
I hold up the “Stay here” hand signal.
Staying low, I creep up to the nearest window. Pressing my face to the glass, I peer inside.
It’s dark in there. A long, carpeted hallway. Paintings hang on the walls. At first, nothing stirs. Nothing moves.
And then a door at the far end of the hall opens. The light spills out to illuminate a burly man with a shock of red hair. He’s struggling with something heavy.
He puts his back to me and keeps dragging whatever it is down the hall in my direction. I watch, eyes narrowed and a nasty feeling brewing in the pit of my stomach.
When he turns around at the bend in the hall, the light hits whatever he is carrying.
Matteo.
He’s covered in blood, his eyes gray, empty. And there’s a hole at the side of his head.
“Those fucking bastards…” I whisper under my breath.
They fucking murdered him point-blank.
There’s more motion from the room that Matteo was just dragged out of. A woman emerges. She’s tall and thin with an imperious posture. I’d recognize her anywhere.
Molly fucking Fitzgerald.
What the fuck?