Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
When they lay the man down near us, Mr. Vitale moves closer and crouches next to him. He places his hand on the man’s chest, and it’s only then I recognize the expression on his face. Grief.
The man was important to him.
Mr. Vitale rises to his full height and asks, “Renzo, can you handle this for me?”
“Of course,” Renzo replies. “Dario, give me a hand.”
As I look at all the men, power and rage come off them in waves, and it taints the air I breathe.
Who are they?
I don’t realize I asked the question out loud until Mr. Vitale answers, “They’re friends.”
“Let’s get out of here,” one of his friends orders.
Mr. Vitale’s eyes lock on me, then he says, “Let’s go.”
I slip off the car’s hood and follow him to the G-Wagon, where the remaining guard is waiting for us.
“Bring the SUV, Milo,” Mr. Vitale instructs before he opens the passenger door.
The tablet. I have no idea what happened to it.
Feeling numb, I climb into the vehicle and pull on the safety belt.
When Mr. Vitale starts the engine, I look out of the window and think to ask, “What about the police?”
“Don’t worry about them,” he mutters.
As we drive away from the building, I lower my head and try to make sense of what happened today.
My voice sounds drained of life as I ask, “Did they try to kidnap you?”
“No.”
I don’t understand how I’m able to have a conversation right now.
“Then why did it happen?”
“They wanted to kill me,” Mr. Vitale answers, making it sound like this is an everyday occurrence for him.
Before I can ask another question, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and answers, “Vitale speaking.”
Slowly, I turn my head to glance at my boss. He looks a hell of a lot calmer than I feel.
The man is really made of stone.
“Lorenzo didn’t make it. Renzo and Dario took his body.” He listens to whatever the other person says, then replies, “It was the Slovak mafia…yeah, get everyone ready for war…I’m five minutes away.”
He ends the call, and all I can do is blink at him.
Why would the mafia want to kill Mr. Vitale? Did he do something to piss them off?
When he drives through a pair of large black gates, my eyes widen at the sight of all the men.
“No,” I whisper.
Mr. Vitale hits the brakes, then picks up his phone again and makes a call. “Have everyone go to the guesthouse until I have Miss Blakely inside.”
Within seconds, all the men head to the side of the property and soon I can’t see them anymore.
Mr. Vitale drives to where other cars are parked, and when he gets out, I don’t move a muscle.
He opens the passenger side door and orders, “Come, Miss Blakely.”
It’s only then I realize he called me Samantha while we were being attacked. Now I’m Miss Blakely again.
Despite feeling reluctant, I climb out of the G-Wagon and follow Mr. Vitale into the house, which I recognize from when I dropped off his dry cleaning.
He walks to a liquor stand and pours a glass of whiskey. Bringing the tumbler to me, he says, “Drink it all.”
Yeah, I don’t think alcohol is going to make me feel better.
Still, I take the drink and swallow the burning liquid.
His eyes lock with mine, and then he says, “You can’t tell anyone at the office.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s going to be all over the news,” I mutter.
“It won’t.”
I set the tumbler down on the stand and notice the dried blood on my hands.
My mind recoils, refusing to process the death and violence I saw.
Mr. Vitale takes hold of my wrist, and I’m pulled to a restroom, where he shoves my hands into the sink. Turning on a faucet, cool water runs over my skin, and I watch as the blood swirls down the drain.
My mind begins to race, and I’m bombarded with gruesome images.
Jessica being shot in the neck. The blood squirting from her. Her lifeless eyes.
The gunshots.
Being hunted.
The terror.
The hopelessness when I realized I might die.
Mr. Vitale killing all those men.
The bodies.
The blood.
My shoulders shudder, and a silent cry is torn from my chest.
Mr. Vitale places a hand on my shoulder, and before I know what I’m doing, I move closer and bury my face against his chest.
Maybe the trauma I suffered today is bigger than my fear of men.
Maybe I just need to be comforted so badly that I don’t care whether he’s touching me.
Right now, it doesn’t matter.
His arms wrap around me, and I feel his mouth press to my hair before he says, “I’m so fucking sorry. You were never meant to see that part of my life.”
“W-why d-d-did it h-happen,” I sob, needing to understand why we were attacked and so many people had to die.
His tone is filled with power when he says, “I’m one of the five heads of the Cosa Nostra.” He pauses, then adds, “The Sicilian mafia.”