Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Bold and brazen as fuck…
That was the best way to describe it. What Grandpa said he was determined to do, he put in provisions to do just that. Grandpa was a gun that shot bullets on its own. He was a knife that cut in mid-air. A bomb that ignited without provocation. Roman turned off the malachite light he’d been using while in the large meeting room, all by himself. The place smelled of burnt leaves, wood, and leather. He stood straight and played with his specially picked out gold and diamond cufflinks. Wearing his Belvedere Chapo Genuine Crocodile Men’s Oxfords and looking spectacular, just as he’d planned. He’d prepared himself for this moment, but that didn’t stop the moisture from gathering around his brow, and the faint fibers of frenzy gumming up the back of his throat.
He caught his reflection in the silver frame of a huge painting of John D. Rockefeller. Standing there looking into that brave and savvy man’s eyes, he bowed, then brushed his hand along his black tresses, smoothing them out. He left the room with his briefcase in hand, dripping with determination. As he walked the long corridor on the third floor, he spotted his boss, Eric Dearborn, out of the corner of his eye. The man offered a subtle nod and wave. To his right, he met eyes with one of many security guards, all armed to the hilt. He gave a slight gesture of acknowledgement. Roman made his way to the elevator to head to his office, allowing a cleaning lady to get on first.
The older woman with warm light brown eyes and salt and pepper shoulder-length hair smiled wearily as she pushed her overloaded cart onto the elevator with a hard shove and sigh. Her tawny, worn skin had been in too much sun, and her wrinkled hands had seen far more labor than she probably ever intended.
“Good mornin’. It’s a great day to be alive,” he greeted with a smile. “How are you today?”
The woman responded in broken English. Something about being tired and needing coffee. He caught the gist of it.
“I enjoy a good cup of coffee myself. What floor would you like, ma’am?” he asked after pushing the button to the tenth floor, all the way up to the top.
“Seven.” She groaned. He shot a side glance to her legs. They were covered in thick umber stockings that led to black work shoes. This woman and her crew kept the building in tip top shape. She was always there bright and early and didn’t leave until around six in the evening. He stood there, thinking about her… even with all of his own troubles to contend with.
She reminds me of my mother for some reason. My mama ain’t Mexican, and she doesn’t have a Spanish accent. She ain’t ever worked as a cleanin’ lady from my recollection, but it’s this lady’s essence. She has resilience. A quiet fight in her. She needs to make ends meet, even to her own detriment. Probably helping to take care of others in the family.
The seventh floor button lit up like a beacon, and the woman offered him a gentle goodbye before wrapping her hands around the handle of the bustling cart.
“Ma’am, hold on. Would you mind followin’ me to the tenth floor lounge? I would like to show you something.”
The woman looked rather confused.
“Mi nombre es Roman Wilde. Necesito tu ayuda. Por favor sígueme.”
The woman’s eyes ignited with interest. “Hola, Sr. Wilde. ¿Hables español?”
“Well, I know enough Spanish to get by. I have clients that speak it as a first language, and it makes things a bit easier.”
She nodded in understanding as she stepped back into the elevator. He pushed the button to close the doors, and they continued going up, up, up.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Roman gripped her large cart and began pushing it out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened. Her eyes widened in surprise. Some of his colleagues paused in confusion, their conversations coming to a halt as they observed him pushing that big, heavy thing down the marble hallway, the woman at his side. When they’d reached the tenth floor lounge, a place for only upper management and top earners, he scanned his card, and the glass door unlocked.
Inside were tables filled with bowls of fresh fruit, pastries, large clear refrigerators displaying imported juices, dairy and vegan milk, cold teas, yogurts, cheeses, and assorted waters, as well as an area offering over ten different types of coffee and creamers. That was not including the K-cups.
“¿Cómo te llamas?” he questioned as he parked her cart off to the side.
“Sofia.” The woman nervously ran her hand along her uniform jacket. Roman grabbed a to-go cup and waved for her to come closer.
“Ms. Sofia, take this cup and fill it with whatever coffee you want.” She smiled wide as she took it from his hand. “I know y’all have coffee downstairs, but not nearly as many choices. When you’re finished, put it down because you’ll need your hands free to take one of those bags,” he pointed to a stash of ornamental clear carriers, “and put whatever croissants, donuts or what have you that you like in it. If you want some yogurt and juice,” he pointed to the refrigerators, “take those, too. Don’t be shy.”