Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Tomorrow, I could try out Ryan’s utility ax and chop some wood for the fireplace. I’d gathered branches and twigs to get a fire started for the stove, though that didn’t last very long.
“Are we still in Monaco?” Delgado asked.
I ignored him. I hummed a tune to myself and went into the kitchen. I should give him more water soon. He’d had a half-liter bottle today, roughly seventeen ounces, if I wasn’t mistaken. Far from enough, but this wasn’t a hotel, and Rafael Delgado bought children.
After setting a pot of water to boil, I crammed more twigs into the fire compartment. I was in Italy; I wanted to eat pasta for supper.
Then I put on a pair of sweats and figured I could prepare my bed for the night. To go with the mattresses, Ryan had bought foldable camping beds, similar to the one my youngest brother reserved for me when I visited him on base in South Carolina. Some squeaky IKEA thing—but it beat sleeping on the floor.
I carried it into the living room and positioned it against the opposite wall of where Delgado sat.
“How long are we gonna be here for?” he pressed.
I didn’t miss a beat. “At least a week, but my schedule is wide open all summer.”
He cursed.
I smiled to myself and finally figured out how to unfold the damn bed. There was a latch…
It was funny to imagine Ryan running all over the Italian Riviera to turn our stay into a comfortable camping trip. He’d filled the car.
He was a good man. Despite that he got on my nerves here and there, it was easy to see that he cared.
“We’re going to have to work out a deal,” Delgado said stiffly. “I can’t stay here a whole fucking week. I just can’t.”
I turned around to get the mattress off the floor. “Why? Got someplace to be?”
At this rate, I wouldn’t have to do much in order to get somewhere. No violence, no good cop, no bad cop, no persuasion tactics. He was doing the work for me. I just had to wait him out.
“I’m sure a man like you has plenty of people under him who can keep the boat from sinking while you’re…otherwise occupied.” I dropped the mattress onto the bed and sat down to see how it— “Huh. Not bad.” Not as squeaky as the one at Maverick’s place. I nodded at Delgado, curious. “How many are in your crew?”
He looked at me as if I were defiling the English language. “My crew? I don’t have a crew. The more you speak, the more you show you don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
I grinned faintly and scratched my nose. “Nothing you say will make me believe you’re on your own. You handle too much money, associate with too many people, and hold too much power to manage your work solo.”
I was actually fascinated by his responsibility, because not many cartels would place that much trust in a freelancer. It wasn’t unheard of, though certainly rare. He traveled all over the world, sometimes to deliver a simple message to an associate, sometimes to strike deals, sometimes to break new ground. He could be the messenger that delivered the news of a peace treaty or a conflict.
He could create both too.
War in the world of drugs and cartels was always only an insult away.
Delgado was evidently not going to answer, so I returned to the kitchen to prepare my last meal of the day. I poured pasta into the pot, then dug out a tomato sauce from the bag with items that didn’t need to be refrigerated.
I hoped Coach wouldn’t kill me for using the kitchen island as a cutting board. In my defense, I didn’t have much choice. A man had to chop his garlic, cut up his deli meatballs, and pick out the finest basil leaves.
It didn’t take long before the kitchen was smelling fucking incredible.
I kissed my fingertips and all.
When the pasta was ready, I poured the water out of the window opening and then the pasta into the skillet. Followed by tomato sauce, garlic, basil, and a squeeze of lemon. I saved the meatballs for last since they were already cooked. They only needed to be reheated.
Salt. Pepper. Done.
I was gonna make Delgado’s stomach snarl with envy.
He had a body that required upkeep. One hell of a body. Damn shame he was the scum of the earth. And in no way was I going to let him survive this operation. He deserved to be six feet under.
A couple minutes later, I sat down on the bed in the living room again, this time with a skillet full of delicious pasta and a cold soda.
I had no complaints.
Delgado watched me in silence. He was definitely in pain. He kept trying to rotate his shoulders and find a new position.