Ties That Bind by Elizabeth Blair Read Free Book Online Page A

before beginning to twirl around the room.
    Mitch watched her move then tossed a quizzical look Sonny’s direction. He shrugged but tapped his nose, guessing Ashli had likely imbibed in her drug stash before joining them. Mitch grimaced, causing Sonny to move over and sit beside him. He draped an arm around Mitch, both watching her move about the room in random patterns.
    “Don’t judge her so harshly.”
    “Sonny-”
    “I know,” he nodded, “you don’t believe in imported drugs. But, come on, she’s had one fucked up night.”
    “Where’d she get the drugs?  Jimmie?”
    “No,” he shook his head. “Jimmie won’t deal drugs. Never has. But she’s a connected gal, Mitch. She can get anything and anyone she wants. You might want to remember that.”
    Mitch shot another irritated look at no one in particular then dropped his head to the back of the sofa. “How the fuck am I supposed to explain this to Jimmie?”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Peace. It was what Mitch wanted more than anything in the world. Not the general statement that people across the globe spout with they attempt to be patriotic but true peace in his own life. He could even be more specific if required to quantify it: he wanted nothing to do with either the IOC or the mob. He wanted both organizations out of his life completely. To be at such diverse odds, Mitch sometimes wondered if the two ever realized how intimately similar they were.
    Both were vying for more power – one in Congress and the other in Sicily; both wanted more money, neither caring too much where it came from; and both asked way too much from the people that joined. Giving your life to the mob was no different than giving your life to the IOC. He could be killed working for either and that, more than most things, are what caused the lines to blur for many new recruits to the agency. The IOC offered little in the way of perks to its employees while the mafia?  Whatever your vice, the mob could deliver in spades. In the way of bad habits, Mitch had lucked out.
    Alcohol was his vice. More than drugs, sex, or immeasurable power, Mitch had always found alcohol most persuasive. It could ease a tortured soul, lift depressed spirits and be a cause of jubilant celebration. He didn’t have a great preference – whiskey was his first choice but it was more by default than preference. It served its purpose quickly while wine was civilized, rum an instant drunk, and sambuca a guaranteed hangover. And he had repeatedly tried them all. If he wasn’t required to be so clear headed all the time, he’d likely be a drunk. In that regard, he supposed he had to thank both the IOC and the mob for preventing his permanent membership in AA.
    He swayed the bottle in his hand, watching the liquid move about in random patterns, wondering if Jimmie was as drunk as he. He kind of hoped he was, then his aim would be off and he could get away easily. But, if Jimmie was sober, it meant the end would come right here and now and be quick and likely painless thanks to the high dollar liquor Ashli stocked in her residence in the wilderness of northern New York state.
     It wouldn’t be a bad place to go. If there actually was a peaceful place on earth, this was probably it. With its impeccable formal gardens, cobblestone paths that led from one building to another, unruly wild blueberry bushes that Ashli claimed were taking over the entire property, and the twenty country miles to the nearest neighbor, this was the closest thing to seclusion Mitch had ever encountered in America.
    “This is a beautiful place you’ve got here,” he murmured, hearing the slur in his own words and avoiding the somber gray eyes that he knew were focused on him from across the wrought iron patio table.
    “Our refuge,” Jimmie returned. “We don’t allow strangers here.”
    Mitch shifted his eyes to the pistol sitting on the table in front of them, something in the recesses of his mind telling him that