Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I grin back and catch Simon sharing a look with Dad. They haven’t been happy with me recently, and I don’t blame them.
I’ve been on the warpath these last few weeks, leaving bodies in my wake as I burn my way through Santoro’s hierarchy. I tell Angelo about Joey, and about Joey’s boss, and about the Capos he gave me, and the soldiers they handed over, and the whole sticky web of Santoro’s organization slowly unfolding in my hands.
“All it takes is a little pressure and a sharp knife,” I say, swatting away Simon as he tries to punch me in the shoulder.
“Also, a whole lot of stupidity,” Dad mutters.
Angelo’s eyebrows raise. “I take it our dear father here doesn’t agree with your methods?”
“He’s being short-sighted,” Simon says before I can answer. “But we’re dealing with it. I’d rather talk about something else instead of my brother’s bloodlust.”
I shrug and gesture for them to move on if they’re so inclined, but that word bloodlust bothers me. It’s not that I want to be out murdering a bunch of men—I don’t get some kind of physical pleasure from taking lives—but someone has to be on the front lines of this war. It can’t be Simon, since he’s the Don, and Dad’s in a wheelchair. Elena’s not involved in the family that way, though Laura would do it if given the chance. Fact is, I’m the only person with the skills and the stomach for this kind of work, and maybe they don’t like it, but that’s too damn bad.
I get enough worry from Stefania. I don’t need it from them too.
Angelo tells us about some of the men he’s been spending time with behind bars, about his job in the kitchens, about an upcoming talent show. “It’s like fucking high school in here,” he admits. “Almost literally since there are classes we can take. Then there are all the fucking gangs.” He rolls his eyes like it’s the most annoying thing in the world.
“But you’re safe,” Dad says and it’s not a question.
“I’m not the only Bianco in here.” Angelo scratches the top of his head. “And I haven’t been sitting on my fucking thumbs for the last three years. You guys know I’m fine. Quit coming here and acting like I’m about to get shanked and ass-fucked.”
Dad grimaces but takes the hint. The subject drifts back to the Santoro problem, and I can tell Angelo’s fascinated. Back before he got popped and sentenced to five years, he always liked talking strategy. He’s got a mind for it, and soon he’s spitballing ideas with Dad and arguing with Simon, while I sit back and listen to my family bicker.
“For once in his life, Davide’s got it right,” Angelo says, gesturing at me. “Santoro’s got to pay for what he did. You can’t let him off light again.”
Dad’s expression darkens. “He didn’t get off easy.”
“I still don’t get how you didn’t kill him all those years ago.” Angelo doesn’t seem to notice how angry Dad’s getting or he doesn’t give a damn. Simon tries to get him to stop, but doesn’t let it go. “You never did explain how you let the fucking guy go. He betrayed you, Dad. He kidnapped Davide and kept him in a fucking cage. How is he still alive?”
“You weren’t there,” Dad snaps at him, nearly shouting, and seems to remember where we are before gathering himself and taking a deep breath. He glances at me and I stare right back, because this is something I’ve wondered all these years. “Luciano disappeared after the fire. We stripped the city down to the fucking studs trying to find him, and in the end, after trying our hardest for years, I decided that he really did burn to ashes in that damn house. But it turns out, he hopped over the border into Canada, and began to bide his time, growing his business and gathering his strength, before he came back to the city five years ago. He’s not dead because I thought we’d gotten him, but I was fucking arrogant and underestimated him.”
Simon puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder. It’s clear talking about those days makes him agitated, and he’s still pretty injured from getting shot. “We know you did your best,” he says.
But Angelo’s expression suggests that’s not entirely true. And if I’m honest with myself, I feel the same way as my incarcerated sibling. If that had been my son, I would’ve torn the world to pieces to make sure that Santoro was dead and buried, and I wouldn’t have stopped for anything. But maybe that’s easy for me to say. I have to remember that Dad was the Don of a major crime family, and he had a responsibility to more people than just his kids.