Page 103 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
“What? Where are you going?” Rand asks, watching Hopper as he skips out the door. “Who is that?”
Edgerton latches on to one of Rand’s arms while another security guy grabs the other. He looks back at me as they drag him into the elevator.
“Joe—?” He’s cut off as the elevator doors close.
Guilt gets added to the slurry of emotions I’m not acknowledging right now.
I head back through the lobby, hitting the door just as Hopper pulls up in a black crossover-type car. I get in and put on my seat belt as he tears down the street. Unlike the jokester in the lobby, this version of Hopper is serious, locked in.
Good. I’d hate to have to rip out his larynx with my bare fucking hands.
I look behind me and discover that the middle seats have been taken out and the interior is coated in some kind of rubber. That’s…perfect.
“You know where we’re going?”
“Already in the GPS.”
“Won’t it track us?”
Hopper taps the rearview mirror. Oh. Looks like we’re already being tracked.
“That your RICO agent behind us?”
His eyes flick to the mirror, then back to the road, a small smile playing on his lips. By the time we cross Brooklyn Bridge, he’s shaken his tail, and I wonder if that agent knows he has a fan.
Traffic is a little crazy, but Hopper navigates it with ease, and before I know it, we’ve pulled up in front of my father’s massive brownstone, which is three stories high and takes up half a block.
As I’m checking the gun I took off one of the guys I already killed tonight, I realize it still has his blood on it. And I suddenly feel very tired.
We step up to the door, and it’s opened by one of my father’s goons before I have the chance to knock. Hopper gives the guy a brilliant smile, and the man’s lip curls in recognition seconds before he falls to the ground.
I barely hear the silenced gun.
Hopper takes out two more guards in the hallway and one in the living room, his grin broadening with each kill. When we enter the old-school Italian kitchen with the table in the middle, my father is seated, facing us with his back to the sink, wearing only boxers and a white tank top.
He looks small as he blinks up at me from his seated position. There’s a cup of milk and a handful of Nilla wafers on a small, white plate in front of him, one of them bitten and crumbly.
He looks nothing like the Viper of Brooklyn, who always loomed large and just outside my periphery when I was a kid.
Hopper shifts next to me.
My father’s voice is weathered, tired as he barks out, “Who’s this asshole?”
Hopper answers, his voice soothing and resonant. “I’m the right hand to Mr. Luciano Stefano. He asked me to accompany Mr. Portelli here.”
Gooseflesh pops up along my arms at the ease with which Hopper transitions into this persona. I think about Rand and wonder if I’ll ever make it back to him.
My father bobs his head. “Thank you for completing the extradition. I’m glad your boss could see his way to reason.”
Hopper broadens his shoulders, and we exchange confused glances. “Sir, this is not the extradition. Mr. Portelli is under the protection of the Stefano family now. My purpose here is to ensure his safe return to Manhattan.”
I tilt my head at Hopper. First, I’m under their jurisdiction, and now, I’m under their protection?
He winks at me.
“That was not the deal,” my father says, dunking the half-eaten wafer before pushing it into his mouth. The move seems slow and soggy crumbs stick to his finger as he removes it from his mouth.
And then it hits me. It’s been years since I’ve seen my father in person, and he’s different. Aged, yes, but this is…he’s affected. I wonder who sent the goons to Manhattan. Maybe Sal Jr.? I don’t give a fuck. He’ll be dead by morning too.
