Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“I did what any nosy-as-fuck mafia son would do. I followed him—in this car—to the warehouse. Saw Louis with some man and instantly got a bad vibe. The man was trying to bargain or cut a deal, but Big Jack wasn’t having it. He wanted all the money upfront, since this man was a new buyer. So the man pulled a gun on him. And then Louis pulled a gun on him, too. His own best friend.” He smiles, like he’s remembering something. He makes a right turn, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter now.
“But as it happened, an idea struck me. I had my gun on me. Two guns, actually. He didn’t like guns in the house, so I always kept them in this car. I came out of my hiding spot and shot both of them in the head. I’ve always had a good aim. Big Jack didn’t see it coming. He was stupid for going alone, thinking Louis could be trusted. Thinking anyone could be trusted.”
“Wow,” I murmur.
“He was pissed,” he chuckles. “He shouted at me all the way home, saying how it was going to be a mess to clean up and that he was disappointed in me for following, but I think he was really disappointed in himself for falling victim to Louis’ bullshit. And I also think he was proud of what I’d done.” He runs a hand over his hair. “The thing about Big Jack Nicotera is that he thinks he can be what his brother was, but he can’t. He thinks he can go to meets and deals alone like Lion could—because Lion was respected enough—but he can’t. Because he’s not Lion. He wants to live up to what Lion was, but he never will, because he trusts too easily and his gut isn’t hard enough. That’s why we’re here—in the middle of fucking nowhere. Because the threats are everywhere, and unlike Lion, who knew how to handle his threats, my father is never bold enough. Or maybe he’s just fucking lazy now. Whatever the reason is, he lays low. Only comes out when he has to. Hired more men. More bodies. Stopped dealing with supplying drugs altogether. It’s just guns now.”
“Having a soft gut doesn’t necessarily make you weak,” I say.
“In our world, it fucking does. I learned young,” he tells me, voice harder now. “I was fucked over one time, and I swore to never let that shit happen to me again.” His jaw flexes, brows furrowing.
I inhale and then exhale deeply, looking out of the window. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve killed someone too.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “I know you have. That cold look in your eyes is very familiar to me.”
I look over at him, about to question what he means, but the car slows down, pulling onto a rocky path. He shuts off his headlights and parks in front of a small brick house.
There is a garage off to the left, the lights on inside it. He hops out in a matter of seconds. Before I get out, I fetch my gun and then push the door open, following him to the garage.
He presses a button and it opens automatically.
First I see the athletic shoes, and then the jeans, and then rope around a striped blue shirt. When the gate is fully open, Clark steps forward with a crooked smile, and the man jerks in his chair.
“Here he is. The pilot,” Clark announces with way too much pride.
I frown at him. “What the hell, Clark? Why is he tied up?” I hiss. “I thought you said he was home!”
“When I said home, I really meant that I took him from his house, brought him to a private garage of mine, and roped his ass in a fucking chair.” He looks at me, and I throw my hands out, utterly confused. “What? He wouldn’t fucking cooperate, so I dragged his ass here. Be glad that I did it. That motherfucker was heavy.” He turns his back, and I sigh, twisting around and facing the pilot. I take my gun out and then place my bag down.
Walking up to him, I slowly peel the tape off of his mouth. He scowls up at me, breathing fast, eyes full of panic.
“Please,” he begs. “Don’t kill me, please. I swear, I didn’t do anything. I’ve only been doing my job!”
I stand up straight. “What’s your name?”
“Travis.”
“Well, I only need your cooperation, Travis. That’s it. We take you to the jet, you get it running for us, and get me to Mexico. When you get me there, this will all be over, and you can go back to doing your job.”
“Mexico.” He blows a breath. “I—I would have to make a pit stop for gas, and I can’t do that without checking in. He told me I can’t check in anywhere!” His eyes dart over to Clark.