Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
My thigh muscles screamed, making me wish I’d been a lot more dedicated to a regular workout routine than I’d been in a long time. My lungs were just as angry. Though, whether that was due to a lack of cardio, or trying to draw in freezing cold air was anyone’s guess.
My feet…
No. We weren’t going to talk about my feet.
“Okay. Breathe,” Venezio demanded when he pulled me down a claustrophobically small alley between a busy bar and a bodega. “Here,” he added, finding several plastic crates and lining them up so I could sit down and take the pressure off my burning feet.
I sucked in deep, greedy breaths, ignoring the pain in my lungs as I did so.
My whole body felt hot and cold somehow at the same time.
Venezio, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be struggling to breathe at all.
“I don’t… how…”
“Any fool, once they found the tracker, would have circled back in the other direction,” Venezio said.
Okay.
That made a certain kind of sense.
And maybe I would have come to that conclusion myself as well, given a few moments to think it through.
I glanced at Venezio, finding him looking down the long alley, his hand poised over his waistband where I now knew a gun was hiding.
Like he was waiting—and prepared—to shoot.
My brows drew together as I watched him, my mind trying to piece the bits of the night together to create some sort of picture that made sense.
Everything had been normal. Okay, a little spicier than normal. But otherwise normal. No creepy characters lingering about.
But as we walked out of that bathroom, I’d been aware of Venezio tensing, even before he could have possibly seen anyone since I hadn’t.
The second he did, though, he somehow knew we had to run.
Why?
Did he know him?
If he did, why would he assume the man was there to harm him?
Was he some sort of enemy?
But who the hell had enemies?
Ones who would place trackers in purses or chase you through a busy city with a gun?
That kind of thing didn’t happen to normal people.
Hell, normal people in the city didn’t carry guns, period.
So why did Venezio have one?
“Venezio,” I called, tone guarded.
“Yeah?” he asked, turning back.
“What the hell is going on?” Before he could answer that, another question tumbled out, one that maybe had more to do with my feelings than the situation. “Who are you?”
Venezio’s face tightened. He sucked in a slow, deep breath. His shoulders went slack.
Like he knew this would be coming.
Like he was dreading it regardless.
“I work for the Costa Family.”
Costa family? Who the hell was the… wait.
“The Costas? Like… like the biggest donors the charity has?” I asked. I mean, it wasn’t exactly an uncommon name, especially in a city that had a large Italian population. But it felt too coincidental not to draw that conclusion.
“Yes, them.”
“Okay. But… what does that have to do with this?” Was there some assassin out to murder a member of a wealthy family?
“The Costas,” he tried again, with emphasis.
“I heard you.”
“Family.”
“Yeah…”
“Family, babe. As in Family.”
“I don’t…”
But just then, the other meaning of that word clicked.
It hadn’t been anywhere near the forefront of my mind because, well, according to the news and the cops, the mafia hardly existed anymore in New York.
I’d actually dated someone who’d been really into mob movies and history when I was younger. And even he’d said that once the RICO Act went into effect, the mafia pretty much fell apart.
But maybe… maybe that wasn’t true.
Or it wasn’t true anymore.
It certainly explained why Venezio was so calm, why he had a gun, why someone was after him.
“The mafia. You work for the mafia.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand. Wait,” I said, my stomach sinking. “Are you… like… washing money through my charity?”
A strange, completely inappropriate snort escaped Venezio at that. “No, babe. We’re not washing money through the charity.”
“What’s funny about that?”
“The idea that you bring in enough money for us to wash money through your charity.”
It was idiotic to be offended by that, given the circumstances, but there was nothing rational about emotions.
“Then why do they donate so much?”
To that, Venezio sighed out a breath, then reached backward to rub the back of his neck.
And that was a universal sign of guilt.
“What did you do?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a snarl. But this charity was important to me, dammit. If he and his mob buddies compromised the integrity of it, if they involved me in something illegal, it might not only shut down the charity (and leave kids with nothing on Christmas) but I could go to prison.
“Babe, we really shouldn’t get into this right now. We need to keep moving.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me some answers. So unless you plan on throwing me over your shoulder and carrying me away, we are going to talk about this right here.”