Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
"I know. It will seriously cut into my social calendar, but I will have to endure," he said, smirking.
"I appreciate it," I said, nodding, mentally trying to figure out which jobs could simply be put on hold, and which ones I would need Emilio to handle. I could cut it down, so I could handle some of it when I got back.
"Go get to your old man before he gets to Brio."
"Yep," I agreed, clamping a hand on his shoulder before going back into the room and grabbing my jacket off the hook on the door. "It's your lucky day, asshole," I told the man who let out a pathetic whimper. "I have to tap someone else in who is likely going to go easier on you. But it's still gonna fucking hurt. And if you don't have the money by next Friday, you're going to see me again. And we are going to play dentist. One by fucking one," I said, tapping my front tooth with my finger before turning and walking out.
He'd have the money.
They always did.
If they had to commit armed robbery for it. I didn't give a fuck so long as we got what was ours. Plus the interest he'd agreed to when he'd borrowed the money to begin with. No one got shit for free in this world. And no one got away with stiffing the Costa family.
I made my way up the stairs and out the back door of the butcher shop, which put me on the side street where my car was parked. At first glance, it didn't look like a money car. A simple black sedan. No bells and whistles. Nothing that would stand out in traffic. But it cost me a mortgage down payment for an affluent suburb regardless. Some of the families had learned from the mistakes of generations that had gone before them. Like how being too flashy was a surefire way to ensure a tax audit.And if you didn't have enough on the books to justify that three-hundred-grand car, shit was going to get real. And quick.
Plus, whichever fed was taxed with following your ass around on any given day was going to spot a flashy yellow Ferrari faster than my black sedan. I could shake a tail. That was more important to me than having others see how rich I was.
My father lived in a brownstone that my grandfather had bought before my father was even born. It was old and ate more money than anyone should have to put into a house, but it was part of the family legacy, and just flashy enough that my father liked the looks he got when someone saw him heading outside. New York was a city of a lot of wealth, but it was still always a bit shocking to see someone stepping out of an eight-million-dollar brownstone to grab coffee and a paper at the bodega around the corner.
I parked out front when I got there, seeing Vin D'Onofrio making his way down the street toward his waiting car, his guard a few feet behind him. He looked irritated, as anyone would after speaking to my father.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of my car, nodded to my father's guard on the stoop, and letting myself in the house.
The inside was what you'd expect, with a center staircase leading up, a parlor to the left, and a dining room to the right. I moved forward, knowing I would find my father in his office, across from the kitchen.
For all the money he'd put into the place, it was surprisingly dated. The wood was stained too light, too out of fashion. The floors were worn, desperate for refinishing. The cabinets and backsplash clashed, and the countertops were dull from age.
It needed someone to bring it back to its glory. That man would not be my father.
"I need another cup of—oh," my father, Arturo Costa, cut off, head jerking back at seeing me towering in the doorway instead of one of his men.
Like my level head, I got my appearance from my mother's side of the family. Where my father was the short side of average with a barrel stomach and a receding hairline, I was well over six feet, lean and fit, with a full head of dark hair.
The study, like the rest of the house, was in need of renovation. The dark wood was oppressive, the leather sofa creased with age, the carpet faded. Hell, I could smell the age of all the books on the shelves. Books I knew for a fact he never picked up to read, let alone dust.
"Father," I greeted, moving in slightly, but only enough to lean against the wall, just inside the doorway, not wanting to be closer to him than I needed to be.