The Wrath Walker (The Wrath Series Book 1) by Matthew Newson (fun to read .txt) 📗

door just for my own peace of mind. I had that highly secured room built so I could talk freely with my associates to get things done faster. There were only a handful of people who knew that room existed. If any one of them were to share that secret, then all of them would have to be silenced, and I had made that clear to all.

Joey Abbate came in first and greeted me upon his arrival with a hug and a kiss to each cheek. That was a sign of respect, and it was something we only did in private, because it was a dead giveaway of who we were to police and other interested parties. Most police had known who we were already and left us alone for the most part because we kept all our business dealings quiet. However, I didn’t want to give any law enforcement agency a reason to look twice at us.

“Skeeter, thank you for calling this meeting and including me. How ya doin’?”

“I’m good, Joey, thank you for asking, my friend. Now take a seat while we wait for the others.”

Joey sat and ran his hand along the edges of his slicked back black hair. It amazed me how Joey was in his mid-forties, and still didn’t have a single gray hair attached to his head. Mine had gone solid white by the time I was his age because I had been the head of the family for several years by that point. He never had that kind of responsibility thrust upon his shoulders like I had, but his overall youthful appearance sickened me a little, but what are you gonna do about it?

However, Joey was a short stocky man with a bad case of little man syndrome, but where that was a downfall to some, it helped to mold him to become the most feared bookie in the city. People could bet on anything with Joey, even the Academy Awards. He kept up on all that stuff, and he seemed to like it. If anyone in the city wanted to place a bet on something, Joey was the go-to guy. But if someone cracked a joke about his height, they bought themselves a one-way visit to the intensive care unit, and the ones that were really out of line were never heard from again. People were scared of Joey, and he knew it. If too many people hit big on the odds, well, Joey would just change the numbers. He would literally alter people’s bets, and no one argued with him about it, and took whatever he paid out. Joey had greatly increased the wealth of the family, which helped us to muscle out the remaining Riccis.

Next, Francesco Carbone walked in the room, but we all called him Frankie.

“Skeeter, how are ya? Are you doing okay, my friend?” Frankie hugged and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Don’t worry, Frankie, everything is fine,” I reassured him. “Please have a seat.”

Frankie was the best bagman that ever worked for me, and probably the best in all of organized crime. Frankie collected all the money from bets that were placed on the street, and not in Joey’s restaurant which was named Joey’s Kitchen. I found that to be a little on the nose, but what are you gonna to do about it? Joey earned well, and that was all I really cared about. Frankie worked closely with Joey, and he was one of the main reasons why he always collected. People knew if they didn’t pony up, then Joey would find the degenerate and would give them a beating they would never forget, or Frankie would light them up like a Christmas tree—literally.

Frankie not only aided in collections, but he’d pay out the winnings to the people who placed their bets out on the street. The one thing that bothered me about Frankie was how arrogant he could be. The guy was in his fifties and he still acted like he was twenty-one all the time. He worked out consistently, and because of that, he thought every twenty-something young woman wanted him. Even as he sat at the table, he told Joey how much weight he lifted at the gym that day and flexed his biceps as if we cared. Then he went on about how all the women at the gym were checking him out, and even I had to roll my eyes at the last one. Frankie fired his mouth off once about some of the business dealings he participated in to impress some woman he was hoping to bed, and it almost cost him his life when I found out. I would have killed him if he wasn’t family, but I told him next time he was a dead man.

Finally, Enzo Messina entered the room in his solid black suit and greeted me as the others had. He gave a respectful nod to his associates and took a seat at the table while Joey and Frankie exchanged pleasantries with him. Enzo was my enforcer, and he was the most brutal and efficient hit man I had ever seen. He studied the art of killing and had it down to a science. The way he staged his hits to look like accidents or that someone else was responsible was like a work of art that one would pay good money to see in a museum. The man was also some kind of genius. He kept up on the latest evidence collection methods in order to beat them and stay a step ahead of the cops. He had a talent that only a few possessed. Enzo was quiet and respectful, which I liked most of all about him.

The one thing they all had in common was that they worked for me, John “Skeeter” Amara. They were my family, and they aided me in running my empire in the city of Black Castle. These were my top guys, my captains. I viewed us as legitimate businessmen,