Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
My heart is steady. My fists still hurt from my last fight.
This is the calm before everything good.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I flinch and look up, half standing in an instant.
Enzo’s there, holding his hands up with a cold frown.
I rip out my earbuds. Enzo glares at me, disappointment written all over him. “What are you doing here, Stefano?”
I let out a grunt and tilt my head to the side, cracking my neck. “Fighting.”
“I can see that.” He gestures at my shirtless torso and the simple black athletic shorts I’m wearing. My fists are wrapped with tape. “But I’m wondering what the fuck you’re thinking.”
“Not thinking.” I sink back down to the bench, my back turned to him. “Fighting.”
Enzo sighs. He paces behind me. I don’t pay him too much attention. He’s like an annoying fly buzzing in my ears.
The guy has no power over me.
Luca’s another story. He’s my Capo and I’d die for him. I’d rather kill, though. And there’s Adriano Marino, Don of the entire Famiglia. But he’s the boss of all bosses, and I never see much of him.
Enzo’s only Luca’s second-in-command. Ever since Luca got married and started focusing on different parts of the business, I’ve been stuck with the pain in the ass. Leo’s gone, working in New York, and Davide basically never leaves his computer cave. Which means I’m stuck with Enzo most days at the trucking depot where we run our operation.
“This is beneath you, you know that?” Enzo grunts as he lowers himself down beside me. The guy’s only thirty-four, though, and he acts like he’s ancient. I’m over forty with more scars, broken bones, and wounds than any human has a right to survive, and I don’t grunt and groan like he does. Even if every part of me aches all the damn time.
“I don’t agree.”
“You got a promotion, Stefano. You don’t need to be out here doing this sort of thing anymore.”
I frown at my fist. Promotion, my fucking ass. Now I sit in an office and make phone calls. I hate phone calls.
“I like fighting.”
“God damn it, Stefano, come on. Stop doing the caveman routine for once and talk to me. What are you thinking?”
I look at Enzo. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s pragmatic, smart, and normally very calm. But we don’t agree on certain things.
Like risk, for example. He doesn’t like risk. Whereas I live in that gray area between a plan coming together and a job failing catastrophically. That’s where I feel alive.
But thanks to my promotion, I’m not out on the streets much these days.
“I really like fighting.”
He groans and leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this? You need money? More work or something? You’re not busy enough?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then what is it?”
The door bangs open. The gruff stage manager pokes his head into the locker room. “Stefano Bianchi? One-minute warning. Get moving.” Then he’s gone.
I get to my feet. My right knee aches. My shoulders are sore. When I flex my hands, all my knuckles creak and crack. I’m pretty sure I have a broken rib and the fucker won’t heal all the way.
“This is where I belong.” I pat him roughly on the shoulder. “Put some money on me, will you?”
“Already did,” he mutters, shaking his head.
I limp away from him, smiling to myself. Enzo’s not such a bad guy. Different opinions on some things, obviously, but he’s not stupid.
He knows what I am.
Just like I do.
The roar of the crowd hits me. The lights are too fucking bright. The bass is deep and thudding and the music’s way too loud. Who the fuck can talk in a place like this? I’m so damn old these days. Over forty now, somehow. Not sure when that happened. I stalk forward toward the ring where a man half my age is warming up, a muscular prick with lots of ugly tattoos and a shaved head, shadow boxing and flexing. Putting on a show.
I barely look at the people around me. Money’s passing hands right now. Lots of these morons are making bets based on what they think of me as I slowly climb up into the ring, my back aching, my heart thudding nice and slow.
Let them see what I am.
A man past his prime, slower than he used to be, beaten up from a thousand fights and a dozen wounds that would’ve killed lesser men.
I stand facing my opponent. No jumping around, warming up, showboating, none of that shit. Things I might’ve done in my younger days. Back when the world made more sense. When there was a path I wanted to follow and goals I wanted to achieve.
I’m not him anymore.
Now this is all I need. The ring under my feet. The threat straight ahead. The simplicity of two men with a shared goal.