Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Was he in a fight?
When the elevator doors slide open, I rush out, and Vincenzo and Fabrizio instantly stand on guard.
“What’s wrong?” Vincenzo asks.
“We need to get to Giulio,” I answer as I climb into the back of the Bentley.
Fabrizio slides in behind the steering wheel and asks, “Where is he?”
I forward the coordinates to Fabrizio’s phone. “It’s near the NewYork-Presbyterian hospital. Elio’s already there. Hurry.”
During the drive, I dial Elio’s number, and the moment he answers, I ask, “What happened? Is he okay?”
“I’ll tell you everything when you get here,” Elio says, and from the tension in his voice, I know it’s bad.
Giulio.
“Tell me now,” I order, my tone not leaving space for any argument.
“Antonio got a call from his cousin, who’s a nurse at the hospital. She recognized Giulio when she was roped into doing a shady job.”
When Elio pauses, I snap, “Is he alive?”
“Renzo,” he groans.
No.
An icy sensation rushes through me, and it’s followed by a ruthless pain tearing through my heart.
Elio clears his throat, then says, “You have to get here now.”
“We’re a couple of minutes out,” I say, my tone coated with the ice filling my chest.
He’s not dead.
He’s only twenty.
I’ve done everything to protect him.
Giulio’s not dead.
There’s no way.
My mind keeps reeling, and when we pull up to the entrance of the alley, I shove the Bentley’s door open, and the moment my feet touch the ground, I break out into a run.
“Where are you?” I growl into the phone.
“I see you,” he answers as he comes into view.
When I reach him, we rush past dumpsters lining the side of the alley until it opens up to an empty lot. An unmarked truck is surrounded by my men.
“It’s fucked up, Renzo,” Elio says. “Brace yourself.”
My eyes flick to my right-hand man. “For what?”
He shakes his head, his complexion gray, and it looks like he’s about to puke.
As we approach the open door at the side of the truck, he says, “Organ trafficking.”
Living in a world of crime, I know exactly what that means.
Destructive rage fills every inch of my being until it feels like my body is vibrating.
There’s no bracing myself, and when I climb the four steps and enter the truck, the air is knocked from my lungs.
The inside of the truck has been rigged into a mobile surgical unit.
Antonio, one of my men, is standing next to a woman who I assume is his cousin.
Two bodies of unknown men lie on the floor. Cooler boxes are set out on a table, and then my eyes lock on Guilio’s body.
Christ.
I’ve seen a lot of shit, but the sight makes my stomach churn, and I struggle not to puke.
There’s a cut running from the top of his chest all the way down to his abdomen.
“I tried to stitch him up,” the nurse says with a trembling voice.
My eyes snap to her, and she recoils, trying to hide behind her cousin.
“Tell me what happened,” I order, my tone low and deadly.
“I was approached by one of the doctors who asked if I wanted to make extra money. When he told me what the job would entail, I agreed because I knew the Cosa Nostra is against organ trafficking and would need all the information I could get. I also thought I’d be able to help the patient. I called Antonio, and he rushed over, but by the time I arrived, they already had Giulio on a bypass machine.” The words leave her in a rush, each one filled with fear. “They already removed his organs and were getting ready to transport them.” She covers her mouth with a trembling hand. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Torrisi. There was nothing I could do.”
“Everyone get out,” I growl as my eyes lock on Guilio again. “Now!”
Only when the door shuts behind the last person to leave do I move to the side of the operating table and look down at Giulio’s bruised face. His nose is broken, and his left eye’s swollen. There’s dried blood on the side of his head and purple marks around his neck.
I continue to inspect him, noticing the broken skin over his knuckles. There are no gunshots or stab wounds.
My eyes flick back to his face, and seeing the deathly paleness of his skin, the heartbreak slams so fucking hard into me, it forces me to take a step back.
Lifting a hand, I grip the back of my neck as I start to shake my head.
“No.” The single word is nothing more than a groan.
I move closer to the operating table he’s lying on, and leaning over my little brother, I frame his beaten-up face with trembling hands.
Feeling how cold he is, a breath explodes over my lips before a broken cry is ripped from my very soul.
Pressing my forehead to his, the unbearable pain of losing my brother makes it feel like my soul is hemorrhaging.