Page 17 of Shotgun Daddy
And once more…
It was a nagging reminder that Faustino’s world wasn’t all juice runs and playdates – and never would be. Faustino knew that he’d have to face Matteo and Michael soon, and it was going to be a more of the same drama. Faustino could feel it in his bones, and he didn’t like it one bit…
“Fuck,” Faustino said, dropping his speed and taking in the sights ahead of him.
The disused warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted metal walls and shattered windows casting jagged shadows in the fading afternoon light.
“All this money, and we have to meet here?” Faustino said, allowing himself a sly grin.
Faustino pulled up on his motorcycle, the engine’s growl rumbling. This was the spot Matteo had texted him. Short notice, no details, just a time and an address. Typical Fendi family cloak and dagger bullshit.
So far, so weird…
No sign of Michael’s sleek town car or Matteo’s SUV. Just silence and the faint hum of the city in the distance.
“Okay…” Faustino muttered, his eyes darting around, his senses tingling. Something wasn’t quite right.
Faustino checked his watch. Five minutes early. Plenty of time for his brother and cousin to roll in with their sanctimonious crap about “leadership” and “the new way” of running the family. In fact, this was all probably some kind of test to see whether he was willing to bend to their wishes. Part of Faustino wanted to get back on his motorcycle and get the hell out of there.
Faustino snorted, leaning against his bike and doing his best impression at looking casual. He’d wait, but he wasn’t happyabout it. The last meeting had ended with him smashing a glass and storming out, and this one didn’t feel like it’d be any less tense if this no-show act was anything to go by.
Try as he might, Faustino struggled to stay calm. He wasn’t some errand boy that Michael and Matteo could jerk around. Faustino was as much a boss as any of them.
Minutes ticked by.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen...
“You have to be kidding me,” Faustino muttered, kicking at the dirt underfoot.
The warehouse stayed quiet, the only sound the wind whistling through the broken panes and the occasional clatter of loose metal somewhere inside.
Where the hell are they?
This isn’t just late…
This is a slap in the face.
“Assholes,” Faustino muttered, pacing a few steps, his boots kicking up more dust. He pulled out his phone, and hovered his thumb over Matteo’s name, and then Michael’s.
But before Faustino could type a single word, a sharp crack split the air.Gunshot.
Faustino’s instinct took over, and he dove behind his bike, the gravel around him kicking up and spraying everywhere asanother shot rang out, pinging off the warehouse wall just above his head.
“What the fuck?” Faustino snarled, yanking his pistol from his belt. He peeked over the bike, catching a glimpse of a dark car screeching out from behind a stack of crates, tires spinning as it zigged and zagged onto the road.
Faustino fired off three quick rounds, aiming for the tires, but the car was too fast, and by the time he set himself for another flurry of shots, it was already shrinking into the distance.
Adrenaline flooded Faustino’s system as he crouched low, scanning for more threats. The warehouse lot stayed still. No movement, no sound except the echo of the shots fading away.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Faustino snapped.
Faustino stood up from behind the cover of the motorcycle, his mind racing...
Someone had just taken a shot at him on Fendi turf, at a meeting spot his own damn family had picked.
