Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“We’re already using all my excess capacity,” Prime says, jaw working. “Tell Fontana he’ll have to be more patient.”
“Patience isn’t my boss’s primary attribute. Five more shipments by the end of next week. Move things around on your end if you have to. I’m sure you can make it work.”
“You have no idea the sort of shit you’re stirring.”
“Actually, I do.” Carbone slaps his knees and stands. “I see you’re not in the mood to be civil so I will let this meeting be short. Mrs. Spadaro, a pleasure, and tell your mother I enjoyed that chat.”
I feel like the room goes black. “Chat…? What chat?!”
“She didn’t say?” Carbone’s lips pull back. “I dropped by to visit. Lovely woman, your mother.” He snaps his fingers and I flinch like a gun went off. He turns to Prime. “Five shipments. No bullshit. Make it happen. I know you can. Wonderful seeing you both.”
He struts from the room. I can’t move, can’t breathe. He was at my parents’ house. He drank tea with my mother. That monster, that fucking monster, he’s doing this to fuck with us, reminding us the power he holds, and I hate him so much.
Prime’s face is red with rage. His body trembles as he stands, gripping the edge of his desk. “I have something I need to do.”
“Prime, hold on—“
“I’ll be fine.” He opens his bottom desk drawer, takes out a gun, and loads it. I stare, dumbfounded.
“What are you doing?!” I run to his side and grab his arm. “Don’t go after him.”
“I’m not.” He stoops down to kiss me as he shoves the pistol into his belt and shrugs into his jacket.
“Swear to me. Please, not right now.”
“I promise, baby. I’m going to kill that piece of shit, but not today.” His hand presses against the small of my back. He tugs me close and slams his mouth to mine. It warms me, gives me a blush of hope. “I have errands to run, but I’ll be home tonight.”
“I love you. Please, don’t get in trouble.”
“I never do.”
He leaves and I watch him go. I feel bereft, emptied, drained and ash-dry. I collapse into his chair and lean my head back. I bathe in the smell of him but that only does so much to ease the knot in my guts, the ball of tension breaking me in half.
CHAPTER 32
PRIME
Night’s heavy in South Philly. An old woman shuffles past, a little white dog on a leash tugging hard. Someone in headphones on the opposite side has their face buried in a screen. The houses here aren’t nice, but they aren’t shit either. It’s solidly middle class, as far as this part of the city goes.
I got a lot of memories from this neighborhood. Fights, fucking, laughter, pain. Six blocks south I lived with a decent foster family for a few months, at least until my stealing and running around got to be too much and they kicked my ass to the curb. I went to school near here, kissed a girl for the first time on these streets, stabbed a kid in a park not that far away for the first time. Blooded myself here, bled too.
Shawn died on a corner to the east.
Too many memories. Most of them shit, but some aren’t bad. I touch the gun in my lap, thinking whether I’ll use it tonight, or maybe I won’t have to. There’s so much riding on what I’ll do now and my wife’s face is mixed up with the bad thoughts, the old images fading, replaced by a sense of optimism. Or at least by a need to see her again in the morning.
Hell, I’m getting fucking dramatic.
I push open the door and step out. The evening’s crisp as I cross to a stoop with a freshly painted black door. No bars on the windows means whoever lives here is confident nobody would dare fuck with him. There’s a nice old Mercedes parked out front with a traffic cone at the bumper. I knock and wait.
No answer for a minute. I knock again, and again, until the door unbolts. “Who the fuck is—“
“Hey Alfonso. Been a long time.”
The man staring at me can’t be the same one from my memory. This one’s old, eyes lined, forehead wrinkled, hair graying and receding. The Alfonso in my head is early thirties, big and strong, hairy and loud and quick to laugh. I looked up to him like he was a god and wanted to be just like him.
The door opens a fraction. “Prime? Is that you?”
“Didn’t think you’d recognize me.”
“My god, I almost didn’t.” He leans against the frame. He’s in a pair of dark sweats and a long gray shirt. “I was headed to bed. Why are you on my stoop?”
“Wanted to talk. Been a while. Thought we might catch up.”