Read Online Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) by Dani Amore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dani Amore
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wallpaper, the tile, the beveled glass mirror, none of it pleased him, like it sometimes did. He raised his large, heavy featured face to the mirror. A tear pooled at the corner of one eye. A thin drop of nasal mucus appeared at the entrance to his left nostril, like a groundhog tentatively peeking his head out on February 2nd.
Romano looked at his upper chest in the mirror. The thick white bandage was still around his butchered torso, but he would have to remove it in order to wash himself. Alone, his head dizzy with grief, he wished he could be anywhere else, wish he could wake up on a desert island and have his old body back. He’d never really been all that lean, always thick and always solid. But in his twenties, it was mostly muscle. Now, the muscle had turned to fat. He wished he could go have that body again, fly to some island in the Caribbean, swim in the saltwater and sit shirtless in the sun for a few hours.
But instead, he was going to have to see the damage the surgeon had done to him. His heart beat fast, his mouth was dry and his hands shook.
He slowly reached up and found the seam where the bandage had been affixed. The tear sitting at the corner of his eye fell, streaking down his cheek like a downhill skier. Romano ran his hand along the bandage until he came to the clasp. It was a state-of-the-art bandage, with Velcro tabs. He closed his eyes, couldn’t bear to watch. But then, at the last moment, he decided he’d rather watch than open his eyes and see the shocking visual of the scar, the one breast gone, the other man-titty still hanging there.
He would take it like a man, even though he no longer felt like one.
The head of the Detroit mafia watched as the bandage fell away and landed on the marble floor, its reinforced edge karate chopping the top of Romano’s foot. He didn’t feel the pain. Instead, he stood transfixed, looking at his image in the mirror.
The scar was much smaller than he expected, a half-moon stitched directly beneath where his left breast used to be. The scar wasn’t bad at all. He looked at it, fascinated.
His eye moved to his right breast. It hung there, a young girl’s breast. Perhaps pre-pubescent.
Romano’s eye went back to the scar.
Then back to his right breast.
A shudder ran through his entire body. His breath caught in his throat.
He felt like a freak. Not because of the one breast gone. That actually looked okay.
But Romano stared at the one breast that remained.
That was the one that hurt. That was that one that looked freakish and humiliating. He reached up and cupped his one remaining breast and tears now flowed from both eyes. What a fool he’d been. The question popped into his mind unbidden. The solution had been there all along.
Why hadn’t he gotten a double mastectomy?
The head of the Detroit Mafia hung his head and wept.
Several minutes later, someone rapped on the bathroom door. Romano sat on the toilet. The toilet’s lid was down and he was wearing his thick white bathrobe. He stared at the tile on the floor, his eyes roving over the pattern, daydreaming, making his mind think about something else.
The knock came again.
“What?”
“Phone call.” Romano recognized Falcone’s voice. “Says it’s extremely important.”
Romano sighed and heaved himself to his feet. He’d wiped his face and any sign of his tears were gone. It was time to get back to business. He’d had his private moment of shame, now it was time to put things right.
Without leaving the bathroom, Romano stuck his hand through the opening of the door and retrieved the cell phone.
“It’s me.”
One never used names on the phone. It had been like this all his life. Worrying about the Feds, fearing new and better technology for eavesdropping. He was just a businessman. God, he hated the FBI.
He listed to the voice on the other end of the phone. It was a highly paid informant and at times like this, Romano took immense delight in the fact that money the
Romano looked at his upper chest in the mirror. The thick white bandage was still around his butchered torso, but he would have to remove it in order to wash himself. Alone, his head dizzy with grief, he wished he could be anywhere else, wish he could wake up on a desert island and have his old body back. He’d never really been all that lean, always thick and always solid. But in his twenties, it was mostly muscle. Now, the muscle had turned to fat. He wished he could go have that body again, fly to some island in the Caribbean, swim in the saltwater and sit shirtless in the sun for a few hours.
But instead, he was going to have to see the damage the surgeon had done to him. His heart beat fast, his mouth was dry and his hands shook.
He slowly reached up and found the seam where the bandage had been affixed. The tear sitting at the corner of his eye fell, streaking down his cheek like a downhill skier. Romano ran his hand along the bandage until he came to the clasp. It was a state-of-the-art bandage, with Velcro tabs. He closed his eyes, couldn’t bear to watch. But then, at the last moment, he decided he’d rather watch than open his eyes and see the shocking visual of the scar, the one breast gone, the other man-titty still hanging there.
He would take it like a man, even though he no longer felt like one.
The head of the Detroit mafia watched as the bandage fell away and landed on the marble floor, its reinforced edge karate chopping the top of Romano’s foot. He didn’t feel the pain. Instead, he stood transfixed, looking at his image in the mirror.
The scar was much smaller than he expected, a half-moon stitched directly beneath where his left breast used to be. The scar wasn’t bad at all. He looked at it, fascinated.
His eye moved to his right breast. It hung there, a young girl’s breast. Perhaps pre-pubescent.
Romano’s eye went back to the scar.
Then back to his right breast.
A shudder ran through his entire body. His breath caught in his throat.
He felt like a freak. Not because of the one breast gone. That actually looked okay.
But Romano stared at the one breast that remained.
That was the one that hurt. That was that one that looked freakish and humiliating. He reached up and cupped his one remaining breast and tears now flowed from both eyes. What a fool he’d been. The question popped into his mind unbidden. The solution had been there all along.
Why hadn’t he gotten a double mastectomy?
The head of the Detroit Mafia hung his head and wept.
Several minutes later, someone rapped on the bathroom door. Romano sat on the toilet. The toilet’s lid was down and he was wearing his thick white bathrobe. He stared at the tile on the floor, his eyes roving over the pattern, daydreaming, making his mind think about something else.
The knock came again.
“What?”
“Phone call.” Romano recognized Falcone’s voice. “Says it’s extremely important.”
Romano sighed and heaved himself to his feet. He’d wiped his face and any sign of his tears were gone. It was time to get back to business. He’d had his private moment of shame, now it was time to put things right.
Without leaving the bathroom, Romano stuck his hand through the opening of the door and retrieved the cell phone.
“It’s me.”
One never used names on the phone. It had been like this all his life. Worrying about the Feds, fearing new and better technology for eavesdropping. He was just a businessman. God, he hated the FBI.
He listed to the voice on the other end of the phone. It was a highly paid informant and at times like this, Romano took immense delight in the fact that money the
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