Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I hated to admit this shit, but my ass looked back at Nyx. Some pathetic-ass part of me hoping she would be looking in my direction, watching me leave.
But she was busying herself with restocking the speed rail. Or, rather, she looked like she was just concentrating on restocking the speed rail. If you looked closely, though, she was glancing all around the bar. Like she was looking for something.
What the fuck was going on?
But then I was moving through the door and out into the somewhat crisp January air.
I mean, after spending winter over in Navesink Bank at the mother chapter on the East Coast, I’d learned to reevaluate how “cold” Shady Valley got in the winter.
January in Jersey was typically in the mid thirties.
In Shady Valley, we were in the low sixties.
Can’t say I missed the thirties, but I did appreciate that their summers didn’t get as deadly hot as ours did.
“What’s on your mind, Cillian?” I asked, glancing over at him.
We weren’t exactly close, but we’d known each other for a long time. Long enough that I noticed how tight his jaw was, how tense his posture was.
“I’m actually surprised you haven’t reached out to me, what with how you keep an eye on the prison and all.”
“I keep an eye. Not a close one. And only really on the people who would be a good fit for my organization. Why? What’s going on with the prison?”
“Not with the prison necessarily,” Cillian said, his gaze moving automatically in that direction.
Even in the middle of the night, the place was lit up like the middle of the day.
Behind it, Death Valley was a tall, Stygian presence. But the prison floodlights were positioned damn near every three or four yards, making each square inch of the grounds visible. There were lights on the roof and around the guard tower as well.
Hell, even all this way away, I swear I could almost see the shine of the razor wire on top of the fences.
“Cill, you being dramatic on purpose?” I asked.
To that, he let out a deep sigh, taking a glance around, then stopping to turn to look at me.
“He’s out.”
“Who’s out?” I asked, confused by the clear worry on his face.
This was Cillian Murphy.
He was second or maybe even third-generation Irish mafia. He was raised in crime. Had ice flowing through his veins when it came to crazy shit.
If something scared him—or, rather, someone scared him—then it was probably serious.
“Erion.”
I didn’t need more than that.
No one in a five-state radius needed more than that.
There was only one Erion in our world as far as we were concerned.
Erion Kadare.
The half-brother to the former leader of the Albanian mob.
The Albanian mob family that Judge used to enforce for.
That used to run shit in our town.
Before the Novikoff brothers took over.
Which meant that pretty much all of the Albanian family died, went to prison, or scattered, never to be heard from in our area again.
The thing was, Erion went away a solid six or seven years before all that shit went down. He caught a voluntary manslaughter charge after beating a guy to death during a “bar fight.”
Thing was, it was more than just a bar fight. It was personal. But no one in town was willing to open their mouths about the truth when Erion’s brother was around to keep everyone quiet.
So when all the shit was going down between the Albanians and the Russians, Erion had to sit his ass behind bars, unable to do anything about it.
“Shit,” I said, raking a hand down my face.
“Yeah,” Cillian agreed.
A lot had changed since Erion had gone away.
“How long has he been out?”
“Jack over at the motel said he saw him walking down the street last night.”
“But he’s not renting a room at the motel?” I asked. That was always where the newly released guys ended up. At least until they figured out their next move.
“No.”
So who the fuck was putting him up, that was the question?
And, of course, what the hell kind of trouble was he going to stir up now that he was free?
Did he want revenge for his family? Were the Novikoff brothers preparing for war?
“Do they know?” I asked, nodding over toward the pool hall, the only other hopping place in town on any given night of the week.
“I’m sure as shit not telling them,” Cillian said.
The balance in the town between the organizations was a careful one.
We all, for the most part, got along. Minded our business. We dove into different shit when it came to how we made money, so there was no reason for any real animosity.
But we didn’t, as a whole, work together.
Sure, the Murphys and I might share some information now and again, but we weren’t exactly allies. And none of us really brushed shoulders personally or professionally with the Russians.