The suspense in BLOOD SPORT is non-stop.
Vince Fiorillo looked out of the bay window of his great room at the choppy waters of Casco Bay. Scattered patches of snow and ice clung confidently to the shoreline as winter begrudgingly held Maine in its clutches. He took a puff on his Montecristo A and, without turning around, began to address the two men who reclined in the Luke leather chairs behind him sipping on Courvoisier.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I have been doing a lot of thinking and believe that we have come to a point in our lives where an in-depth examination is needed; an examination of where we are, where we’re headed, and what we can do to make the journey more enjoyable.”
He turned toward the pair sitting before him and addressed them as he had done jury boxes many times before, with clear eyes and a stentorian voice that demanded respect. “We have more money than we’ll ever spend, have no one to spend it on, and don’t know what to do with our free time.”
Francis “Frank” Flynn and Caleb Morgan stared at the imposing figure but had no inclination to reply. At six foot four and well over two hundred pounds, Fiorillo towered above the others and with his wavy black hair combed directly back, his appearance belied his age. They knew that Vince had not finished speaking and knew better than to interrupt his train of thought. What they didn’t know was what was coming next.
Fiorillo put his foot on the ottoman that sat equidistant between the two men and leaned in to finish making his point. He blew a series of concentric smoke circles into the air and spoke in a throaty whisper. “I think we need to commit a murder,”