Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“You know, since you’re going, you might as well see if the Cuevas would be willing to send some of their guys to help us smoke out Federov. You know, as a sign of good will, since the fucking girl ran and all.”
I laugh and nod. “I’ll see what he says, but I think we should do this on our own first. It’s a sign of strength that we can handle our own problems, but it was a good thought. Now come on, let’s go before the cops arrive.” In the distance, sirens blare, getting closer.
We climb into the car. The other teams are already gone, heading back to their respective stations: bars, clubs, restaurants scattered all over Phoenix. This city, the city of my birth, the city of my family, where my parents both died and where one day I’ll die too, this is my city, and that interloper Danil Federov will taste a bullet from my gun before this is through.
But first, I have a wife to fetch.
Chapter 23
Olivia
Papa’s estate looms in the distance, appearing and disappearing from view behind the hills as I wind up the familiar dirt road. The SUV Flowerss and rocks and I have the windows down, breathing the air, letting the dust get into my hair. I don’t care and can’t think of anything but getting home. This is my dust, my dirt. The land of my father and my family. Even if I came to it late, I grew to love it here. The men at the front gates a half-mile back looked like they saw a ghost when I smiled at them, but they waved me through and radioed up to Papa, so he knows I’m on the way.
I don’t know what kind of welcome I’m in for and it doesn’t matter. I’m not here for smiles and hugs and joy. I’m here for answers, and I’m just happy to be home and for this drive to be over. It’s been a nightmare of toll roads and boredom, watching miles flit past, up until I reached the border. But even that was no big deal: the guards practically couldn’t have cared less when I rolled through, they just waved me on and wished me good luck. Like they knew I was headed home to have the most important conversation of my life.
The house comes fully into view. Red clay tile roof with whitewashed walls and Spanish arches. It’s not the most opulent house in all of Mexico, but it’s certainly large. It sits on several acres of gorgeous land dotted with pristine scrub brush and wavy brown and green grass, with small windswept trees dotting the lazy hills. I used to walk through the trails and listen to the birds and chase after the small foxes and squirrels like I might catch one of them and force them to be my friend, but there are no friends here, not this far away from civilization. Over six hours from Phoenix, an hour from any major population centers. It’s inconvenient being so far from the humming heart and lifeblood of Mexico, but it’s safer. This house was my home and my curse, my comfort and my prison. It feels strange parking out front like I’m a guest.
But I am a guest. I don’t live here anymore, even if it is the home of my father and the house I spent so much time for so many years.
I get out of the car and wipe my forehead. It’s later in the day, past lunchtime. The front doors open and an older woman steps out: Fernanda, one of the main housekeepers, a pretty woman with bright eyes and a big, easy smile.
I run to her and give her a big hug as she greets me in Spanish. The language comes back to me like stepping into a pair of slippers. “Ah, little girl, you’re home again. The house has been so quiet and dull without you.”
“Hello, Fernanda, I missed you so much. How is everyone? How is Papa?”
She tuts and makes a face. “Ah, you know your father, always working too hard. But everyone else is fine, they’re all fine. Complaining as always, but fine. Well, look at you, you look healthy at least. The Italians are feeding you, yes? They’re taking care of you? I’m glad you haven’t forgotten how to speak your own language yet, even if you do sound like an American, talking that silly English up there all the time.”
“Go easy, Fernanda, go easy. They’re decent people. They treated me right.” Which is the truth. If anyone, Casso’s been more than patient with me and everyone else embraced me into the family with grace and ease. I wish I could complain, but it wouldn’t be fair.
I want to say more, tell her about Elise and Karah, about little baby Antonio, about the food and the kind cook that tried his best to give me a taste of home, but the doors open again and Papa steps out, and Papa does not look happy. Papa looks at me like I’m a little girl again getting in trouble around the suburbs of Phoenix.