Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“I can explain.”
“You’d better.”
When Romero takes a step forward, I hold out an arm to bar his way. No. This one’s mine. I need this. I need to hurt someone.
Chuck’s eyes widen when I remove my jacket. “Well? Start explaining.” I hand the jacket to Romero, never taking my eyes off the man in front of me.
“It wasn’t his fault,” one of the other men offers, though he doesn’t sound like his heart’s in it. “Our software glitched or some shit, and we lost the schedule.”
“You don’t have a backup? Some safeguard in place?” I shake my head in disbelief while rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. “When we first embarked on this arrangement, you gave me every assurance there’d be no fuckups.”
“And there hasn’t been until now.” Beads of sweat roll down the man’s face. “Please, Mr. Torrio. It’ll never happen again. I swear.”
“What if they seized the crates during the extra day they’re sitting here?” I take one slow step after another while Chuck backs away. “What then? Whose ass would be on the line?”
“They’re safe!” he blurts out, his back hitting the wall.
“And how the hell do you know that?” Fisting him by the shirt, I haul his pathetic face close to mine. “You working with the Feds? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Because that’s the only way you’d know for sure.”
The rancid stench of fear rolls off him. This pathetic, weak piece of shit. I’m sick of weak links. Empty promises. Sick of the future of what I’ve built being in the hands of those I can’t trust.
Pulling my fist back, I savor the hopeless certainty in his eyes before smashing it against his cheek hard enough that his head snaps to the side. His men flinch but stay in place. They know better.
“Please! Please, Mr. Torrio!” Chuck’s cries fall on deaf ears. I’m oblivious, thanks to the rush of relief that first blow brought me. This is what I should’ve done all along. Beaten the shit out of someone until the beast inside me settled.
The beast, which now demands I hit him again. Again. He drops to his knees when I release him, and I drive my knee into his nose, sending him sprawling onto his back. His men are anxious, wringing their hands, but one look of warning keeps them in place.
“Do you motherfuckers think this is a game?” Chuck’s ribs crack when the heel of my shoe presses down on them. I can’t express how satisfying that cracking sound is to me. He rolls onto his side, curling into a ball, and I settle for kicking the hell out of his back until he squeals like a fucking pig.
“Please!” he screams from behind his crossed arms, which only adds fuel to the fire of disgust and outrage driving me. Another solid kick, and he’s on his back again, hands raised in surrender, his face a bleeding mess.
I’m hardly out of breath as I pull him up by his shirt collar. He’s the symbol of everything that could’ve gone wrong, that has gone wrong. The sense of losing control over myself, my thoughts, my life.
“Now you know,” I snarl in his face. “You do not fuck with me or my shit.” When all he does is blubber and weep, I slam the back of his head against the concrete floor.
“Boss!” I hardly hear Romero as I repeat the motion before releasing the unconscious man and push into a standing position. “We should go.”
Chuck’s breathing, but barely, lying motionless on the floor. When I back away, one of his crew crouches beside him. “We need to get him to the hospital!”
“Now,” Romero urges, pulling me by the arm.
“Let’s see if any of you fuckers forget who you’re dealing with again.” I pull my wallet from my back pocket and withdraw a stack of bills.
“There you go.” I throw a handful of cash and watch as the bills scatter across his bloody, broken body. “That should help with the hospital bills. Next time, you’ll be leaving in a body bag.”
The last thing I see before I give in and let Romero pull me out of the warehouse is the blood soaking into the bills, the dark red spreading across green. I’ve heard it called blood money before but never considered the term literally.
“I thought you were leaving the kicking ass part up to me?” Romero questions, tires squealing as we peel out of the lot.
I flex my hand, my knuckles aching, Chuck’s blood already drying on my skin. What would little Bianca think if she saw me now?
Looking at Romero, I say, “Some things the general has to do himself.”
BIANCA
My coworker, Josh, lifts his beer in my direction while we stand around the bar. “To the end of your first month. You survived.”