Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
It’s so much worse than I thought.
They’re not coming. They’re not on the way.
They’re already here.
My phone rings once we’re back in the car. Frankie’s driving and I sit in the passenger seat, glaring out the window, thinking black thoughts. Matteo’s voice doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Spoke with the council,” he says abruptly. “They’re not happy.”
“They’re never happy. What’d they say about Kira?”
“I told you, Stellan, bringing a damn Santoro girl into this is a mess. Half the council think you’re insulting them.”
“Good. I am. What’d they say?”
“Bad shit, mostly.” He sighs loudly. “But they’re going to approve it. This war might be working in your favor. The old bastards are all scared of trying to fight it on their own.”
“They’d rather I took care of their problem for them.”
“Yeah, and they might even hope you end up dead in the process. Two birds, one stone, that sort of thing.”
“That’s real comforting.”
“A Santoro girl! Come on, Stellan!”
“Tell the council I’ll handle the war. Tell them to stop delaying. Give me what’s rightfully mine.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it done.”
I hang up. Around me, Philly flashes past, a series of quiet lives and miseries.
“They making you Don?” Frankie asks.
“Despite themselves, it looks like it.”
“Congratulations.”
“Strange how I don’t feel good.”
“That’s life in the family.” Frankie grins and shrugs. “Brutal and a pain in the ass. But a lot of fun too.”
I grunt in reply. I glare out the front windshield as the gears continue to turn in my head. Too many moving pieces. Too many ways to fuck this up. “You should know, we’re moving the book after they make me Don. Two nights after.”
“You need me for that?”
I shake my head. “No, I’ll take care of it myself. Just giving you the heads-up.”
Frankie shrugs and stares straight ahead. “Never gets easy, does it?”
No, it fucking does not.
KIRA
There are a lot of reasons to hate my mother.
First reason: she’s a selfish asshole. No matter what you say or do, nothing’s ever enough, because everyone’s out to get her. She’s a victim, but she’s also a user. As in, she uses everyone around her to get what she needs.
Which brings me to reason two: she’s an addict. And not one in recovery. She’s in full-blown addict mode, happy to steal what’s not bolted down to sell for drug money. All my life, I’ve had to deal with the whims of my mother’s addiction, and while I know it’s a disease, I still hate her stinking guts for being such a piece of trash all the damn time.
But those aren’t even the most frustrating reasons. At least, not right now.
Reason three, and the reason I’m most pissed off: my mother can’t organize a damn thing to save her life.
“Why the hell did she save old grocery receipts from fifteen years ago?!” I throw the folder across the room. Papers flutter out and cover the already-messy floor.
The apartment feels strangely empty. We still have furniture in here, but most of our personal items are back at Stellan’s place. Or I guess back at our place. I don’t know how to think about it yet, but that doesn’t matter.
We did leave some stuff here though. Such as all the crap my mother left behind that I’ve been carting around in case it ever becomes helpful one day.
Old bills. Ancient tax documents. The pile of myriad papers that makes up a life.
I’m hunting for some hint of my father, some clue about his life and his connection to Stellan’s organization. He was married to my mother for over a decade, and there should be some trace of him. Even just a signature on a work order or something like that.
But there’s nothing. Not a single trace.
Like the guy didn’t exist.
I remember him though. He had a deep, booming laugh. His smile was bright and airy. He taught me how to throw a ball, how to do math in my head, how to shovel the sidewalks, how to catch a train, how to ride the subway. He taught me cooking, dancing, singing. He taught me everything.
He died when I was ten. That was long enough to know him.
Except I never really did.
Because somehow he had a second life I never knew about.
I try to remember what my mom told us about his work, but I come up with nothing. Dad left early and was there when we got home from school most days, but I just figured he had some boring office job somewhere nearby. That’s what most kids think, right? Their parents couldn’t get more normal and average?
Now I’m finding out my father was an important member of a freaking mafia family.
Important enough to mentor the Don’s own kid.
There are too many questions swirling around in my head. Like, what did Dad do to make everyone hate him? Did he really die in a car accident, or was his death linked back to the Corsettis?