Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“Done. And Jamie… If I finish him with a flying knee in Round Two, I get your ass as the prize.”
19
AT FOUR o’clock on Friday afternoon, a courier showed up at the desk of the office and handed Catwoman Cathy a gray metallic envelope with Mr. James Atwood printed on the front. There was an invitation inside— one of those expensive-looking ones they sent out for weddings. It said simply:
Alcazar entrance, 6pm sharp.
The white Range Rover was waiting at the curb when I stepped through the front doors of the Alcazar at six o’clock. Aldo begrudgingly opened the door for me, and I climbed inside.
As on the ride in from the airport, I marveled at the supple beauty of the tobacco-colored leather interior and giggled yet again when the seatbelt hugged me without being prompted. This time, however, I tried to remember all of the features Kage had described to me during one of our random conversations. I found the control to lounge back and bring the leg rest up, opened the center console refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of water, and brought the lap desk up and down. All the while, I wished I had someone with whom to share the amazing experience.
I was in the belly of a great white shark, cruising out to God knows where on the outskirts of Sin City, leaving the lights and bustle behind. It was terrifying in a way to leave the oddly comforting artifice behind— the commercials, the casinos, the bachelor parties, the What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. It was all a big, expensive facade, wasn’t it? A tourist attraction built around darker business.
And sometimes you had to be driven out to the desert.
I shivered at the thought and tried to shove away the montage of gangster movie scenes that assaulted me. Surely that wasn’t what this was. Kage’s uncle couldn’t possibly be that unsavory a character. Look at the boy he had raised.
A boy with issues. That much was becoming clearer.
The drive out was quiet— almost too quiet. Whatever it was that Aldo and Aaron normally talked about, they weren’t talking about it with me in the vehicle. Then again, I’d never actually heard Aaron speak. Maybe he was mute.
“Could we have some music?” I asked.
Aldo touched the dashboard computer screen, and some opera song came blaring out of the undeniably good speakers. I sighed and leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and wished like hell I hadn’t asked for music. Because damn. Couldn’t he have turned on some rap or pop? Even country would have been better than this, mainly because now I felt even more like I was in a gangster movie. Didn’t they always play opera when they were slitting someone’s throat?
Fortunately I made it to our destination in one piece, despite the creepy opera music.
Aldo shut off the Land Rover and opened my door for me. The uncomfortable look on his face had me almost feeling sorry for him. He clearly hated my guts, and though I couldn’t fathom why, the fact that he was forced to serve me had to have been humiliating for him.
When I stepped out of the SUV, I was greeted by the sight of a warehouse surrounded by cars. That was all. No lights, no fanfare, no valet parking. Just a warehouse that looked like it had seen better days, and a parking lot full of cars that ranged from broken-down to luxurious. Most of them were of the luxurious type.
Aldo and Aaron approached the warehouse, and I followed. The lack of conversation with these two was always a little disconcerting, making me feel more like a prisoner than a guest.
Aldo pulled the door open, and the loud squeal of metal on metal announced our arrival. About fifty men and women were inside the building, dressed in much better clothing than I was wearing. In my mind, I had imagined an underground fight would be a bunch of guys in torn flannel with dirty fingernails, shaggy hair, and prison tattoos crowded around a makeshift ring surrounded by chicken wire. The scene before me could have easily been intermission at a Broadway show.
I scanned the room for any sign of Kage. The sight of his handsome face and imposing body would have instantly put me at ease, especially since I hadn’t seen it for days, but he wasn’t anywhere in the crowd. He was probably in some back room meditating or sparring with Marco.
Meanwhile, I was sweating bullets.
As I was studying a man whom I could have sworn was famous, I felt the presence of someone very close behind me. My heart immediately jumped, and I spun around expecting to see Kage. Instead, I came face-to-face with a dapper, dark-haired man of about fifty. He was thin and tall in a ridiculously well-cut suit, and he practically sparkled, as if he’d been buffed and polished. I knew who he was instantly. He had the same vague Latin look as Kage, with the perfect perma-tan and five-o’clock shadow, but his eyes were a deep brown rather than green like his nephew’s.