Page 133 of Driftwood Daffodil 2

“Do you want to get punched again?”

“You hit like a pussy.”

This mother…

“You set this room up nice.” Atlee sauntered over and flopped down on the bed. “How many times did you fuck her in here?”

“None.” For some reason I took her to my room. I still didn’t understand why I did that.

I looked around at the various pictures of Atlas I hung on the wall.

This was supposed to be her punishment. Nova should’ve been in here, staring at my brother’s face when I defiled her. Now the thought of Atlas watching from the beyond pissed me off. I didn’t want anyone looking at her. Not even him.

I expected Atlee to question why I bothered setting this up if I wasn’t going to use it. But his mind went somewhere else.

“So, you didn’t fuck her in here… but you did fuck her?”

He wouldn’t stop until I gave him something.

Sighing, I rolled my eyes to where he was sprawled out. “Yes, I fucked her.”

And I wanted to fuck her again. If I could permanently have my dick inside that girl and still live my life, I would.

Atlee braced his arms on the bed and pushed himself up to sit. “How’s her pussy?”

Like fucking nirvana.

“Will you get up and help me finish this shit?”

We still had to take the pictures off the wall. Apparently this is where Aldo would be staying, despite my many objections.

“Fucking Aldo.” Atlee muttered and stood up.

No one liked my uncle. He was an entitled, egotistical, megalomaniac that made the rest of us look like teddy bears. Honestly, I didn’t know why my father hadn’t taken him out yet? He was eldest son of the current boss in Italy, and therefore the heir. Yet Aldo walked around like he was the one who’d get the crown.

“We should do everyone a favor and shoot the plane down before it lands.”

That would be nice. There was only one problem. “I doubt my father would sanction it.”

“He doesn’t have to sanction anything.” Atlee said. “Plane crashes happen all the time.”

“We aren’t that good.”

Could we take someone out, sure. We could even clean it up, but you couldn’t feed a plane to a gator.

“The Devil of Death is.”

That was true. The Devil Of Death aka Preston Whitley was one scary motherfucker. I had no idea how he pulled off half the hits he did. Or if he even did them. Baron Miller supposedly died of a heart attack, and senator Williams had a stroke. Yet I overheard my father call in the hit. We were good, but we weren’t Preston Whitley good. Besides…

“We aren’t putting a hit out on my uncle.”

“Ugh,” Atlee threw his head back with a groan. “You’re no fun.”

We went about removing Atlas’s pictures and were almost done when Atlee tipped his head my way.

“Aldo’s coming this weekend, right?”

“Yes.”

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