8
Grif
There was no chance I’d go back to sleep after the call, so I took a shower and tried not to think about Anna and everything Peters had shared. Coffee was needed to get my brain functioning to work through this puzzle. I was drying off when there was a knock on my door. I wrapped a towel around my waist, walked into the living room and looked through the peephole. s**t.
I opened the door and stepped back to let Moretti in. He didn’t look like the typical made-for-TV mobster. He wasn’t short, balding, nor overweight. In fact, he was around six feet, just an inch or two shorter than me. Hair once black was now salt and pepper; I wasn’t sure if it was from the stressful lifestyle—always watching his back—or from age. It was far from receding and I had to admit, he wasn’t half bad lo
