Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Extortion was a way of life for these guys, but with the bigger, franchised business taking over, the mafia had little pull anymore. There weren’t many “little guys” to extort, which meant less in the pockets of the mob.
Conti branched out into weapons and assassins for hire. The man abhorred drugs. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Thought they brought dirty money. It didn’t matter in the end, because the two forms of business they took on were both in demand, which meant Conti was sitting pretty.
He was somewhat of a precious man. Got overwhelmed easily. Didn’t even keep his own schedule, needed someone to do it for him. And Emil was that person.
Black asked me whether it would be in our best interest to hack Emil Barone’s smartphone. I told him it couldn’t hurt, but I wasn’t fool enough to believe a man like Conti would allow for his schedule to be available digitally. No, these men dealt with pen and paper, and after a while, those papers got burned.
They weren’t stupid. They were brought up better than that. No trace would be left.
Now, having ran surveillance for four days straight, we set ourselves up across the street from a popular nightspot Conti is said to frequent. Some burlesque joint called Bleeding Hearts. It’s a Friday night, and I’m feeling lucky.
Black wasn’t happy with my lack of knowledge on this guy.
I told him to fuck himself. What, did the asshole think I was holding out? If I had anything more, believe me, I’d be using it to find Claudio.
As we sit at a rickety table under the dim lights of the café, biding our time and sipping on our third coffee of the night, Black and I watch carefully through the window. Even though you can’t see inside very well due to the glare from the neon lights beaming across the way, you can see out just fine. This spot was chosen well and is very much to our advantage. We move to seat ourselves in a secluded corner of the joint. Black pulls out his binoculars and peers over the way.
Hours pass, and the line to this Bleeding Hearts place ends up going for miles. And we have nothing to show for our time.
Black sighs. “We’re literally acting on nothing more than a whim here.”
“Yeah,” I respond sourly, because it sucks balls.
Black nudges my shoulder lightly, moves to stand, and states, “This is a waste of time. C’mon. We’re out of here.”
We walk out of the café, and I reach up to adjust my hoodie. Having done another laser session to remove the tattoo on my cheek, I make a subtle effort to cover my scab with a Band-Aid. I run a hand over the stubble on my chin that I’m dying to shave.
Something in my gut makes me turn. Lazily looking up at the club from under my hood, I pause midstep.
Emil fucking Barone.
He walks out of Bleeding Hearts close to a familiar face, speaking animatedly to a man I used to know.
Sasha Leokov.
A good man, Sasha is. He’s Russian, built like a brick shithouse. Stylish. Not much of a talker. He used to be a runner for a firm that called themselves Chaos. I only dealt with him a few times on business, but from the looks of Sasha, he’s irate. And my curiosity spikes.
Black notices my stillness and turns to look at the man himself. Under his breath, he hisses, “Gotcha.”
Sasha was always so cool, calm and collected that my head tells me it would take a lot to make a man with his emotional composure angry.
What is Emil saying to him to make him so mad?
So when Sasha quits his tirade and sees Emil out of the club with nothing more than a turn of his back, prying minds inquire, “Black, who owns that club?”
He blows out a long breath, his features bunching in thought. “Some kid called Leokov. Keeps to himself. Lays low. Pays his taxes.”
Of course he does.
I chuckle to myself, keeping a close eye on Emil. “Do you know who Leokov’s closest friend is?”
Black shrugs and throws me a look that says he really couldn’t give a shit.
I will make him give a shit. This is fucking important.
Emil curses, shaking his head, then shoves his hands into his pants pockets before heading down the street.
Black’s on it, watching Emil with a hawk’s eye. “Follow the white rabbit.”
When Emil is approached by another man, I let out a low, “Well, fuck me dead.” I grin and mutter to the man beside me, “You sure you don’t want to know who Leokov’s right-hand man is?”
Black, knowing when he’s fucked up, shakes his head. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt after all.”
As Emil looks around, I lower my face, and reveal, “Viktor Nikulin. You know who that is, right?”