Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“I’m guessing you have something for me since you called me in.” I nod toward the computer, and that finally knocks Enzo back into business mode. His face hardens as he turns the monitor in my direction.
“Stefano looked into one of the guys that assaulted Raf at the hospital. Poor dumb fucker kept his ID in his pocket. We found an address in Delco.”
My eyebrows raise as I look at the map on the screen. “It’s not that far from here.”
“Here’s the fucked-up part. That house is owned by Corrado Serrano.”
“Well, I’ll be fucked sideways.”
“Obviously, it’s not a safe house since it’s under his legal name, but I’m thinking we might find someone who knows where he is.”
“We should pay it a little visit.”
“That’s what I was thinking too.” Enzo gets up and grabs a gun from the top drawer of the desk. He shoves it into his waistband. “Got the trucks waiting out back.”
Outside, Stefano’s sitting behind the wheel of his massive Ford. He nods and cranks the engine as we approach. “You hear we’re on a hunt?” he asks, sounding like a kid about to go watch the Super Bowl. “Might get messy.”
“Try not to sound too happy about that.”
“You know me. I like to get my hands dirty.”
I exchange a look with Enzo. Crazy fucking bastard. We climb into the other waiting F-150 and get driving down south. I get behind the wheel and concentrate on following Stefano’s breakneck speed, mostly to keep my mind from wandering to Fiorella. I’m tempted to check in with her. Davide set up security cameras all over my property, and there’s a remote app I can use to look through them any time I want. But that’ll only drive me crazy.
I have to trust she’s safe. Or else I’d hear right away.
The house is in a quiet neighborhood in a town called Ridley. It’s a middle-class area, mostly moderate-sized homes with big green lawns and lots of trees. The address takes us to a gray-stone building with a tiny garage and no cars parked in the driveway. There’s one of those ugly silver stars next to the front door, and an old, tattered American flag flutters in the breeze. The front flowerbeds are choked with weeds, and the grass looks like it hasn’t been cut for a couple weeks.
“You sure this is the place?” I ask as we drive past to get a feel for it first.
“Positive.” Enzo looks about as impressed as I feel, which is not fucking at all. “I assumed it would be empty, but that looks straight up abandoned.”
“If Corrado’s name is on the property records, he must’ve cleared out.”
“What was that random Serrano killer doing with this address on his license, though?” Enzo takes the truck around for a second pass. “Doesn’t feel right.”
We don’t speak again as we do another few circuits, taking wider and slower trips around the block to keep from being too obvious. The house never changes, though, and eventually Stefano calls, sounding impatient.
“Let’s just storm the fucking place.”
“You don’t think we should watch it first?” I ask, rubbing at a bit of tension between my eyes. “We rush in there and we could tip off Corrado that we’re getting close.”
“Fuck him. Let’s go in.”
Enzo grunts and slows the truck, parking it about a block away from the house. “For once, I agree with Stefano’s recklessness.”
“Hell, yes, you do. Always liked you, Enzo.”
“Not because I’m a bloodthirsty maniac—” He glances at the phone meaningfully. Not like him. “But I doubt we’ll find anyone. I’d bet anything it’s just a front.”
It takes me all of ten seconds to decide. I check to make sure my gun’s loaded before kicking open the truck door. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Stefano seems downright joyful as we walk with purpose. Ahead, the grass flutters in the wind. A neighbor’s cutting his lawn without a shirt, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He doesn’t even look up. There’s not much traffic, though, and I feel good about going right around to the back of the house.
The rear yard’s almost worse than the front. Old tires are tossed in a corner. A deck’s in total disrepair. There’s a shed, or at least it used to be one. The roof’s falling in on itself.
“Allow me,” Stefano says as he walks right up to the back door. He takes one look at it before using his massive boot to kick three times. The whole damn frame cracks in half, splintering wood, and it teeters inward.
The kitchen’s not bad. It’s dusty and looks unused, but at least it’s not filthy. I go slow, gun out and ready, clearing each room in turn. The place looks like an average suburban house, except there’s nothing personal anywhere. No photographs, no family names, nothing to indicate humans ever stayed in this place. It feels like a cheap Airbnb more than anything, one that hasn’t been rented in a while.