Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Tonight, the softer side won.
I rinse the soap from her body and drain the tub. She’s limp with exhaustion, so I dry her off as best I can and carry her to bed naked. We settle beneath the covers, her head resting against my chest, her palm flat against my beating heart. She burrows as close as she can get, and I wrap my arm around her, extending an olive branch—for now.
“Go to sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll be right here.”
“Anything new to report?” I adjust my tie as Nicky glances at me in the rearview mirror.
He gives me a look that indicates he’s picked up on the tension in my marriage over the last few weeks. It would be hard not to, when I keep asking him these inane questions.
“Nothing new,” he says. “Unless you want to hear about her occasional lunch deliveries.”
After our temporary ceasefire, Abella and I have fallen into what might seem like a normal routine. In the mornings, we make the commute to the city. At night, we eat dinner together and sleep in the same bed when I come in late. I haven’t touched her since, which is a problem for my dick—and an even bigger issue because she informed me her period arrived.
It isn’t the news I wanted, even if logically, I know it’s far too soon. It’s required for the treaty, but that isn’t my sole motivation. Before I went to prison, this was something we discussed at length, and we’d both agreed—we wanted a large family. Abella wanted to be a mother, and I wanted to make her one. This is the last piece of her I can claim, and with her father’s threat still hanging over my head, I won’t be satisfied until I do. I need her to understand that she’s bound to me, forever.
I’m wound too tight, on edge, and I need somewhere to direct my rage. Today, that opportunity practically fell into my lap when my men caught two scouts from the Bratva sniffing around my docks to see what kind of cargo I’m moving. I spent my morning torturing them and sending their body parts all over the city to every club they own. And because I could, I hijacked one of their shipments, set up a raid on their gambling den, and halted construction on at least three of their projects. That was all before noon.
Still, it did little to appease me. I doubt anything will until I can fuck my wife again. But she’s still fragile, and I’m too raw from her lies to be soft with her, so celibacy it is.
The city looms outside the car window as I type out a text to Andrew, asking him to send me the file on Grant Ellison. I have little doubt he’ll be the topic of conversation in today’s meeting.
Every month for as long as I can remember, the major players in Seattle gather to discuss business. In a secure conference room at IVI, men from the highest echelons of society assemble. Politicians, bankers, attorneys, corporate executives, real estate developers, and of course, the Cosa Nostra. Together, this group controls the entire city—everything from waterfront development to local councils, unions, construction, and the occasional fundraiser. Few people realize that this small, powerful network of individuals decides who gets to do business in our city, which elected officials are friendly to our cause, and who is no longer of use to us. It’s a well-established machine, and it all hinges on each of us having our respective roles. Every man in that room is corrupt, but they hide behind masks of civility. I’m the only one willing to wear my sins.
They won’t bloody their hands to do what’s necessary. This symbiotic relationship only works if there’s someone who will do what they can’t. As long as there’s a buffer between them and any real threat to their lives, the status quo is maintained.
Much to my irritation, Grant Ellison’s disappearance has fractured their fragile illusions of safety.
They’re all on edge, uncertain, and begging for their Mafia daddy’s assurances and protection. The problem is, the more I dig up, the more I suspect that worthless shit-for-brains Carlo Pagnotto may have been right about something for once in his life. It looks like Grant’s mistress is in the wind, and nobody on my payroll has been able to track her down, which is unusual.
Since his campaign funds are untouched and none of his rivals have the guts to carry out a murder, I can rule out the most obvious suspects. Until I track down his mistress, I can’t say the same for her. Even so, I’m not willing to throw her name to the wolves who will demand her head on a platter—with or without proof.
There’s also the possibility of Grant’s wife to consider. If the rumors are to be believed, there was no love lost between them. Members of The Society are proficient in gossip, and from what I’ve gathered, Grant had a temper, and he often took it out on her.