Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
I greet the guys who show up right on time, wearing cheap suits and flashing big guns when they tuck their hands in their pockets to look around.
“Classy shit, Benny,” Grigo says.
“Thanks, I set it up myself,” I grin at him. “How you been?”
“Ah, ya know, makin’ bank and stirring up shit,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Have a seat. I know it ain’t the Ritz, but we got food from Rico’s.”
“Sweet. You remember my nephew, Patrick,” he says, indicating some kid that looks about nineteen with his suit sleeves too short.
“No way, Patrick’s a little kid. This is a man,” I say, clapping him on the back. “How old are you now?”
“Graduated high school last year,” he says.
“Welcome to the family,” I say and we take our seats. They have about sixteen men with them to my seven. Mine have training and skill, while they’re showing numbers thinking to intimidate.
“I want to break him in on the ground floor of the business,” he says. “Let him learn the ropes. That way, he knows what’s going on. Now, did you bring us here to eat subs and shut us up with a bunch of shit about how essential we are to the organization?”
“Nah,” I protest. “We gotta work some stuff out. I like a good meal, sit down, and take our time. My dad’s the lay down the law kind, I know.”
“No shit,” he says. We’re just tucking in to our food when my phone goes off. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I check the ID. It’s got to be urgent for anybody to call me during this meeting.
“Yes,” I say, testy.
“The shipment. They popped it,” a voice says. There’s noise in the background. I go to Gino who lifts an eyebrow. “Somebody nicked our shipment,” he confirms. “We need to go deal with the fallout. I’ll let you know what we find, if there’s anything left.”
“I need to make an appearance,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let them know the boss is in charge.”
“Exactly,” I say.
I go tell Grigo what’s up. He doesn’t act smug like he’s behind it or expected it, which reassures me. Unless he’s a better liar than he used to be. I apologize that I’m called away on another matter and ask them to enjoy the meal or take it with them. We will reschedule, I promise, but my mind is already on the shipment. I know which one it was, the load of heavily concealed bump stocks we were moving down to Florida. This is bad.
When I get to the warehouse where the shipment was mean to be unloaded repackaged and trucked out, there’s already a swarm of my guys there. I want to know who’s behind it, and I want the cargo back. If those things fall into the wrong hands, I think in horror, they could end up part of a mass shooting. Not that the people we were selling them to are the most peaceful guys, but the clients are running them to rebels in an oppressive regime, people who are fighting for their freedom, not guys who want to shoot up a crowd of innocents.
I feel sick to my stomach at the thought, and then I remember years ago, Daisy telling me, if you don’t want the bad guys getting illegal guns, don’t run guns. Get out of it, otherwise you’re another villain with excuses.” It didn’t give me pause at the time. We were teenagers and I didn’t think about anything that deep. Now it makes me wonder if she was right all along, if maybe there were ways to run this business without smuggling for arms deals.
It takes all of five minutes to figure out who’s behind this. “I gave that bastard first pick of the meatball subs just now,” I mutter to myself. I dial Grigo’s number.
“How you doing?” he asks with a laugh.
“I want my shipment.”
“Cool. I want your job. Nice suit, destined to lead, clean hands…” he says.
“My hands are anything but clean. If you wanna meet in the alley like when we were kids, settle this like men, I can afford a new suit. Although I gotta good dry cleaner that can get blood out.”
“Maybe you’ll give me his name, I could use a good cleaner,” he quips.
“Where’s my shipment.” It’s not a question. It’s an order.
“Ask your dad,” he says darkly and hangs up.
If Grigo took advantage of my father’s condition, I’m going to need more than just a dry cleaner.
I take the bait and dial my dad’s phone. It picks up on the third ring but it’s a woman’s voice, “Jesus, Benny, he’s dead!” she wails and drops the phone.
I track the location and see that they’re right outside the restaurant where he was meeting a friend for lunch. It hits me in the throat. I heard the truth of it in her cry. My dad’s gone. Just like that, brutal and instant.