Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The men would rush to the front with all their firepower, so I ran around the side to another entrance. I used my knife to pick the lock then threw the door open before I stepped inside the building, seeing five men rush to where the doors had been blown.
I let the rifle hang over my back by the strap and went to the first guy who moved right past me without noticing me. I grabbed him by the shoulder and stabbed him in the neck at the perfect angle, mercilessly ending his life with a slash of his spinal cord. He dropped to the floor, and I grabbed my pistol and shot the next one in the back of the head.
The others turned around and directed their gunfire at me.
One of them was Carlo, the snitch who had fed me the intel because he owed me a favor.
I angled my gun from him to the next guy and shot him in the head.
The other fired off a shot, hitting me right in the shoulder.
But then he dropped to the floor—and I saw Leo behind him.
Leo raised his gun to shoot Carlo.
“Hold up. Not him,” I said as I touched my bloody shoulder.
Leo dropped his gun as he walked forward and kicked one of the guys onto his side to look at his face.
I pointed my pistol at Carlo.
“What the fuck are you doing, Wolfe?”
“If you don’t even have a scratch, they’re going to know you snitched.”
Carlo grimaced before he released a sigh. “Fine.”
I shot him in the arm. The gunshot was loud when it echoed in the warehouse.
“Ah, fuck!” He fell to his knees as he gripped his shoulder. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
“Now we’re even.” I slipped the pistol into the back of my jeans and headed to the sea of inventory blocked off by carts. “We’ve got to move fast. They’re bound to have an alarm and cameras and all that shit. You take the left, and I’ll take the right. Carlo, go in the middle.”
He continued to grip his arm. “You shot me.”
“You aren’t the only one,” I snapped. “Now, get moving.”
We broke apart and began to pull the tarps off in every section of the warehouse. There were crates and boxes under each one, and I had to rip off the lids to check inside. Most of it was drugs, and some of it was imported whiskey.
Then Leo called from the other side of the warehouse. “I found them!”
I ran across to the other side of the warehouse and found Leo standing there examining a rifle similar to the one I carried. “These are them. And look at this.” He grabbed a sheet he found somewhere in one of the piles. “Look.” He held it up for me.
It was a customs slip showing the delivery date and the port and who it was for—Vincenzo Mancini.
“Fucking assholes.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Yeah, we’ve got the guns. Bring the truck and load it fast. We’ve also got to cut the camera feed. Move quickly.” He hung up then turned to me, his eyes falling to my bloody shoulder. “Too bad Frankie isn’t here.”
My eyes narrowed on his face, surprised he cared enough to address it. “I’ll be fine. I get shot all the time.”
Once the guns were loaded and the camera system was cut, we left Port Gela and headed back to Caltanissetta. There was extra linen in the back of the truck, so I secured it around my shoulder to stop the bleeding in order to survive the drive. It felt like a flesh wound, the bullet making a clean exit with no major damage done to the arteries, so it was probably fine.
I just needed not to bleed out and die.
The gate opened, and we pulled into the vineyard, stopping outside the main villa where Don Mancini lived. He, Elio, and Salvatore were already outside with some of the other guys—along with Francesca.
Leo hopped out first. “Look what we found.” He moved to the back of the truck and removed the latch to throw open the door. “Lombardi lied to our fucking faces. We asked him if he knew who took it, and he told us it was probably a mix-up at customs. Son of a bitch.” He spat on the ground to curse his name.
Don Mancini looked at the contents in the back of the truck, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I looked up the ownership of the warehouse,” Elio said. “It belongs to a holding company that exists inside a trust owned by Lombardi’s brother.” He turned to Don Mancini, who didn’t meet his look.
My gaze shifted to Francesca’s, and her eyes were wide in alarm at the sight of the blood dripping to my hand. She started to move toward me, like she wanted to stitch me up on the spot.