Four months ago I was considered the top sports-betting analyst outside of Vegas. Now, after a Don from a rival family forced my hand to turn on my boss, I’m just another nobody hiding in the FBI’s witness protection program. My assigned cover includes the glorious job of head groundskeeper for the Quad Angles City Park, and living a quiet suburban existence partnered with my fake wife. Aw, does that change your outlook of me, knowing the buxom brunette lying in my bed isn’t really my wife? Please don’t let it. I’m not a nice person. I’m not even decent. Anyway, the clank. Two weeks ago I jolted awake with an urge to pee like my life depended on it, so I stumbled to the bathroom. A chilly breeze blew across my chest from the cracked-open window just a few inches away from the toilet. Leaving anything open, unlocked, or exposed in any way is a no-no for a couple in hiding from connected hitmen like Vito Rossi, but this bathroom had become my designated smoke lounge.
