Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
It doesn’t take long to pick it. My heart’s steady in my chest and my hands don’t shake. I’ve done this a thousand times before and it’s like I have a clear vision of my mission. What I’m doing is right, it’s justified, and I can accept failure in the struggle for a worthwhile cause. But I won’t fuck this up.
The door opens into a short back hall. There’s a closet on the right packed with jackets, boots, and shoes. On the left is a powder room, the door open. I move forward into the kitchen. Immaculate, nice and neat. Little flowers in a vase on the table. Decorative plates are lined up above the sink. Since when did fucking Vito collect statues of baby angels? The weird ones with porcelain faces and distorted bodies? I ignore the creepy things and head to the living room.
A cooking show’s on the TV. The couch is empty. Two beer cans sit on a wooden end table, and there’s a collection of coffee table books on the coffee table. I don’t stop to inspect them. Ahead is a staircase to the second floor and I take it, cursing when they creak. I have to stop midway up and listen, but there’s nothing.
I keep thinking the house is empty. But those fucking baby angels are bothering me. Vito liked flashy clothes and expensive chains back in the day, but he was never the sort of guy to give a shit what his apartment looked like. I can’t imagine that changed. But I haven’t heard anything about him shacking up with a lady.
There are too many unknowns. If I were smart, I’d turn around, get the fuck out, and do a little reconnaissance before diving head-first into a shallow pool.
Instead, anger simmers in me. I can still see Vito that night, his face brightened as he sucked on a cigarette, smirking at me and telling some dirty joke. Then the way he went all stiff when the warehouse doors banged open and those Serbians came in shooting, and he ran to take cover, and he didn’t stop running, while I got pinned down. Too much heat, too many bullets, and my guys didn’t stop to bail me out, and they sure as fuck didn’t come back when the sirens got closer and the Serbians made a break for it. No, they left me behind, hung my ass out to dry, and ever since then I keep thinking something. A question I need to ask.
Who ran first? One of them darted for the exit before the Serbians even showed up, like they knew who was coming. I don’t think it was Paulie; I remember him shouting something before the shooting started. Roc? Vito? Tommy?
The master bedroom is on the right and the door’s open a crack. I hear heavy breathing inside. My weapon goes in first, quiet as a hunting cat, and I’m right behind it. Carpet on the floor, dresser to the left, a pair of women’s shoes on the floor. Fucking high heels. Either Vito’s got a fetish he never mentioned or there’s definitely a lady. A big lump in the bed, and I keep going forward, slowly now, gun held out. The lump moves an inch and I pause, but the breathing’s still steady, nice and asleep.
I grab the sheets and pull.
She’s older. I’d bet in her forties. Shapely though, pretty, and her eyes are wide with terror as she stares at me in the night, and the breathing’s still going nice and steady, but it’s not coming from her.
It’s coming from a speaker on my right sitting on the bureau.
“Fuck,” I manage to say as I throw myself to the left.
A gun goes off behind me. It’s a shotgun, no doubt, one of those modern pump action guys. It sounds like a jet engine landing on my fucking head as a chunk of the headboard evaporates and the lady lump starts screaming her lungs bloody. I hit the floor and roll hard, firing at the darkness. No time to aim, and lucky I don’t hesitate, because another blast smashes to my left, close enough to scatter the dresser into a bunch of wooden shrapnel bits. They tear into my skin, a particularly long and nasty chunk driving into my left forearm.
I scramble back, shooting until my cylinder is empty and the hammer clicks on nothing. I reach the bathroom and roll into it, the woman sobbing and going hoarse with terror. I’m bloody and my fingers are slick as I try to reload, but it’s fucking impossible; I have to hold the gun in my off-hand and use my right, which is a goddamn mess. If Vito charges, I’m dead.
The bullets slip into their nests and the gun’s full again. I crack it shut and aim around the corner, but there’s nothing. No return fire, no movement, except for the girl. I wait, straining to hear, but she won’t shut the fuck up.