Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
It was time to try another tactic.
Threatening her with rape, murder, and the decimation of her already destroyed life didn’t work. Maybe I’d get more bees with honey.
“There’s an Italian deli down the street.” I stepped back. “Make yourself presentable. Wear something that isn’t fucking pink.” I grabbed my jaw, working it from side to side. “You could use some fresh air.” She hadn’t left the apartment since her mother left for Chicago.
As expected, she didn’t answer. But her teeth captured her lower lip contemplatively.
She didn’t hate the idea of leaving the house.
A weakness. I can work with that.
I pressed on.
“They have homemade gelato.”
Her throat bobbed with a swallow. She was conflicted. Confused. Torn between loathing me and longing to escape the cage I shoved her into.
She needed to eat, get better, and not stand in my way of dismantling the Bratva. The rest could be figured out later.
For instance, with what method did I plan on executing Tatum Blackthorn?
My current preference was dousing him in gasoline and making a nice campfire out of him. Roast some s’mores with the fire of his flesh and make her eat it.
I’d make her watch, too.
“Move it, Barbie.” I stepped sideways to clear the path for her. “Hurry up, and you just might make it to see the famous Hunts Point sunset.”
_______
We walked in silence side by side on the littered street. Logic dictated I lived where I ruled, so Hunts Point it was.
Fintan lived with Da in the suburbs. They didn’t care for rough neighborhoods. Tierney and I, however, showed our strength by making it our stronghold.
It made little difference that my da wasn’t around. Tyrone never truly was. Technically, he was alive. But for all intents and purposes, he was good as dead. Murdered the night they killed Mam. He was a ghost. Living. Breathing. Attending meetings. Pretending to be alive. I’d been managing the family business since I was a wee lad. Tierney and Fintan helped.
Lila was bundled in a pink faux fur coat covering a pink flowery dress. A silent fuck you to my order that she wear something less childish. Other than hurling a whole-ass flamingo on herself, she did everything to let me know she intended to do the exact opposite of anything I asked.
She drew hungry, curious gazes that were promptly snuffed out by my lethal, intimidating glares.
I sowed terror everywhere I went, but especially in the South Bronx, where my word was gospel.
The orange sun dipped under the decrepit buildings, swallowed by urban decay. Lila took everything in with wide, alert eyes.
We entered Maggiano’s, where I picked up a basket and jerked my chin to signal her to start loading it. The food in my apartment left a lot to be desired. I preferred nourishing, dense in protein nutriments. Shchi soups, caviar, cold meats, pickled eggs, fermented dairy, and black breads.
Life had taught me that anything that could entice you could weaken you. I ate like a beggar and fought like a king. And I never loved anything that could die, other than my siblings.
My wife didn’t realize it, strolling through the narrow aisles of the minimart, but everybody was staring at her. A shelf stocker fell off his ladder following her with his eyes, a woman with a baby and drab clothes sucked in a breath when she passed her, and a group of pimpled teenagers froze in their spot, practically drooling.
Lila tossed various dry pastas into her basket, along with white truffle butter, cherry jam, and biscotti. When she reached for a top shelf on her toes to grab a lemon panettone, I stepped behind her and put it in the basket myself. The top of her head didn’t even reach my chin. And when I looked down and saw her tiny figure engulfed between my large feet, a visual of her getting brutally raped on Crimson Key by some asshole assaulted my mind, making my fist involuntarily clench.
She ducked her head under my arm, hurrying toward the deli and plucking a number from a ticket dispenser. She paused, realizing I could see that she possessed the forethought to do that.
I nonchalantly strolled to the front of the long line of people and motioned for her to join me. She winced, clearly unhappy about cutting the line, but pointed at what she wanted quickly, not making a scene.
Olives. Glazed artichokes. Focaccia. Tuna-stuffed red chili peppers.
When we headed to the register, her eyes halted on a gelato display.
She needed to gain weight, or her brothers would take her away and my entire operation would flush down the shitters. I snatched her arm and marched her to the gelato. Her eyes flared at the sight of the pastel-colored ice cream. She swallowed hard, but didn’t make a move.
I led by example, ordering three scoops. She did the same, pointing at the colors. When we got to the register to pay for everything, the owner’s son—a guy in his mid-twenties with a mushroom haircut and juiced-up muscles—couldn’t rip his gaze from her long enough to scan our groceries.