The Wild Wolf Pup (Zoe's Rescue Zoo #9)(72)

I pull my shirt out of my pants, my hands closing over the metal as my form casts a shadow over the man I’ve been hunting for since he ordered the hit on me.

He calls himself a boss, a fucking leader, but he isn’t worthy of the title and this boss, is about to strip him from the label he cherishes. A boss doesn’t order a hit and miss the mark. A boss doesn’t kill the wrong man and never gets a chance to get the right one. A boss doesn’t rest until he gets revenge. A boss does things his way—until he’s dead and buried.

I’m the boss.

And it’s time for me to rest.

The G-Man’s tongue takes a swipe across the plastic spoon, licking the remnants of the pudding as he lifts his head.

The flicker of surprise spikes my adrenaline, transfixes me back to the man I was thirty years ago and for a moment, I’m not dying. I don’t have fucking cancer and I didn’t just say goodbye to the people I love. I am the fucking man who ruled the most powerful organization in New York City.

I am the legend.

I pull the scissors from the waistband of my pants and watch as his lips move. His words are deaf to my ears as he grips the edge of the table and slowly rises. The lights flash around the room alerting me that the prison is on lockdown.

I’ve created a riot and now before the riot squad comes barreling in here with their guns blazing I’ve got to do what I came here to do.

He continues to talk with every step I take toward him. In my mind he’s begging me not to kill him but my conscience knows better and tries to get me to listen to what he’s preaching.

I don’t though.

I lift my gaze from his running mouth to his eyes and spot the black ink just beneath the corner of his eye.

Three little dots that resemble tear drops, a trademark for gang members when they take a life. One of those tear drops represents the life and death of my underboss. I pull the scissors out and lift them in the air.

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

He lunges for me as I rear my hand back and push the blunt tip of the scissors right into his jugular. The instant the metal pierces his vein blood squirts from his neck, spraying over my face.

For I have committed murder.

His hands close around his neck as he sputters blood from his mouth and begins to bleed out from his neck. A moment later he drops to his knees and falls face first at my feet, staining my white canvas sneakers with his blood.

Forgive me father for I have performed my last hit.

The scissors fall to the floor as a pair of hands tighten around my neck and drag me to the floor.

I close my eyes and see my Gracie’s face before everything fades to black.

Forgive me Gracie





Dear Daddy,


I have never been much for letters. I never kept a diary when I was younger and I can count on both hands how many times I wrote to Anthony when he went away. Yet, writing to you seems almost painless. In fact, it might be the best idea I’ve ever had.

The beauty of writing a letter is that I have the final say. You can’t interrupt me and put your two cents into my conversation, all you can do is listen. Well, not really listen but you know what I mean.

Before my words bleed onto these pages and I profess the truth of our relationship, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to think back; I want you to collect all the memories we’ve created but only the ones that made you smile. Go on, my words can wait, just do it. Go all the way back, to the day I was born, and you held me in your arms for the first time.

Knowing you, you’re skeptical, looking for the catch hidden within my request but I assure you Daddy, there is no catch, no gimmick, this is just a daughter trying to reconnect with her father one last time. I want to see if my memories match yours and I hope I can add to your list, reminding you of some of the great ones I’ll always cherish.

I was five years old; it was my first time riding my brand new bike, the one with the pretty pink basket on the front and the little bell I pretended was a horn. You remember the one, don’t you? It was my first bike without training wheels and you couldn’t wait to teach me how to ride it. With a steady hand, you guided me, balanced me until I got the hang of it and then, and only then, did you let go. I flew down the block, listening to your laughter fade behind me.

I did it! I rode a two-wheeler. All thanks to you.

The next day, I fell off my bike and broke my arm. You met me and Mom at the hospital just in time for the doctor to tell us it was broken and needed a cast for six weeks. I remember being scared, so scared but then you held my good hand as they fitted the cast and promised everything would be okay. You were the first person to sign my cast and I still remember the stick figures meant to resemble you and me that you drew.

I was eight years old, and it was my First Holy Communion. You and Mommy threw me this huge party, and it was the first time you and I ever danced to ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’. The dance started off with me standing on top of your loafers and ended with me in your arms.

Do you know how many times I’ve caught you playing that video over and over? Always rewinding the tape after the song is over to watch it again. I lost count how many times but it was many.

I was eleven years old, and we went to Saratoga for the summer. You took me to the track and showed me the racing form and let me pick the horse in the fourth race. Native Dancer came in first and you won a whole lot of money. I don’t remember how much but you gave me a cut and told me not to tell Mommy.