Resurrection (Wesson Rebel MC Series Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

backhanded compliment. “And you would do differently in this situation?”
    His brow furrows and he glances away.
    Ignoring him, I return to my sheet of paper. I need to guess right on this one. I continue to surf the web, wondering vaguely how the hell Dallas had managed to pull this plane and what his associates in Philly will be like. I need more than muscles. I need the semblance of class. Even our dimwit lackeys have expensive suits, shoes and a polish, mostly thought to be for the wealthy. It fits our “businessman” exterior.
    Before I know it, the plane is landing and I’m looking at Pennsylvania. My stomach clenches as we set down on the landing strip in Atlantic Aviation. The private airport is all but dead. The blocky two story white building with blackout window is a ghost on the horizon, heralding my return to the city I once fled with nothing but the clothes on my back and a lifetime worth of psychological damage. I clutch the arms of my seat as crippling fear and doubt sweep in like a storm hovering on the horizon. The adrenaline that kept me moving forward is no more than fumes and I’m back in the lion’s den.
    I have to do this. This is for Ira.
    I can’t bear to think of him as Matteo right now. It’s a title we left behind with the reapers who tried to take our souls down to the underworld. Images of my brother through our life flash through my brain. Growing up, we were two peas in a pod. He had the patience of a saint when it came to his clingy little sister. He patiently put up with all my growing pains, held me when I had my first heartbreak, and made up for the constant absence of our father.
    For him, there’s nothing I can’t do.
    The door opens and I get myself together. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I stand and grab the medium-sized designer luggage. I turn to look at Prophet and pause. “We are the top of the food chain. Remember that. Everyone else is a non-factor. We run things, fear nothing, and laugh at those who try to threaten us. This is all a game of chicken, and no matter what, we need to be the car barreling toward the other one until it jerks out of the path of our vehicle.”
    He stands a little taller. His brilliant blues eyes grow shuttered, his face closes off, and he gives me a curt nod.
    He’ll do.
    Twenty minutes later, we’re in a rental car on the way to a location I hope is still valid. My father was a paranoid bastard. We had a number of offshore accounts, safe houses, and off the grid bug out locations. He swore by places to get a new identity, cash, and a car. There’s no way Lorenzo found them all. We worked at keeping them between the four of us to keep them reliable. Rats in families aren’t as uncommon as you’d think. Especially now, when the old school code has been broken wide open and we’re all doing our best to breathe life into a crumbling culture.
    I round the corner, constantly glancing in my rearview mirror for signs of someone following us. The hard part about driving is the inability to sign. Maybe that’s a blessing. We continue to drive as I circle around, take back streets and double back. I turn the trip into an hour and a half, but it’s worth it when I pull into the side driveway of the old brick two-story home. In the back, there’s a massive structure that holds what I’m looking for. After turning off the ignition I step outside. I can remember my father drilling this location into my head. It’s the closest to our old home, but we never had a chance to regroup and come back at Lorenzo. Not with all the medical care and therapy I needed, just to function normally.
    The painful road to communicating with sign language is imprinted into my brain. When you lose your main way of conversing suddenly, it’s crippling. You can’t express yourself because no matter how you write it, there’s no tone or hint of intention. It took weeks of pouring over books, videos, and later, a tutor before I could speak freely with my brother again. All