Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
"Snooping around on me isn't a smart move, Lucky," I told him, tossing the phone into the water.
"No, but sometimes it is the only way to get information. Were you planning on keeping it a secret forever?"
"I was planning on telling everyone when she was proven right. Which she was."
"You're not worried your old man is going to kill your ass for this?"
"My father will understand," I countered.
He would.
Antony Grassi was a lot of things.
But one of them not everyone knew was that he was a romantic. This man who honored his beloved wife's memory by never dating another woman again. Not even casually. The man was still married to his slain wife. And he held those vows sacred.
"So, she's someone you want him to meet?" he asked. "Not just someone to warm your bed for a while?"
"She's someone important to me. I can't say for how long she is going to be important, since she has a life of her own across the country. But for now, she's important."
"Got it," he said, nodding. "So what do I have to get her to make her forgive me?"
"Matteo might have a list you can work off of at this point," I offered as we made our way back into the chaos, women being led out of the container, loaded into ambulances, headed out to local hospitals to be checked out.
"We appreciate your cooperation," Lloyd told us hours later after the FBI took off without anything pleasant to say other than they would be back.
"We're not monsters," my father told him. "These girls needed help."
I didn't think New York would necessarily agree. They would likely want us to have taken care of it, just shipped the girls back on our dime somehow, washed our hands of it, then taken care of the perpetrators in private, not involving the police in our business.
But there was business.
And then there was what was right.
Sometimes, you had to choose the latter.
Like it or not.
We would be able to rest easy knowing that these women would get the help they needed.
And then we would handle the assholes who did this to them.
Before the feds got through all their bureaucratic tape enough to ferret them out themselves.
And we could do that while simultaneously looking for Romy's sister.
Speaking of Romy, I was never so glad as to finally be able to make my way home to her.
The day had gone longer than we'd anticipated. It was a quarter after five before I could finally get in my car and head back.
I rode the elevator up, trying to remember the appropriate ways to comfort an upset woman.
Only to walk into Romy in the kitchen, blues on my record player while she steadily chopped something on the cutting board.
"Oh, finally," she said, offering me a warm smile, and it was then I could see the evidence of the tears. The puffy lids, the red-rimmed eyes.
But she was smiling.
And cooking.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," I told her, moving into the kitchen, not exactly sure what my move was here now that she wasn't sobbing and needing me to hold her.
"It's alright. It gave me time to think about what I can make out of what we have in the fridge," she told me, shrugging.
"What are you making?"
"Arepa. Well, sort of. We don't have corn flour."
"What is Arepa?" I asked, watching as she chopped up an avocado.
"It's sort of like a pita sandwich, I guess. Everyone makes it different. But you can have beans, cheese, rice, pork, eggs, and veggies in it. The sky is the limit. The cooks in the family get creative with what they have leftover."
"And what kind are we having?"
"Well, we had the avocado, of course. And that shredded cheese. And there was that leftover chicken I took off that sandwich we ordered for lunch yesterday. And lettuce. And a little tomato. The pita is just a normal pita that someone had thrown in your freezer."
"I don't even know who would have done that," I admitted. "I don't think I've ever seen my aunt cook with pita bread before."
"It's a mystery. Maybe your cleaning lady brought some and then forgot to bring it home?" she asked, knowing about her because we'd discussed her a few nights ago over dinner. Mostly, I think, because it was a job that her mother had done, and she wanted to make sure I was paying Tina fairly and treating her right.
"That's possible. Tina leaves her lunch here all the time. I can see that happening."
"We will have to replace it and tell her it is in there then," she decided, taking a second to write it down on the grocery list we had been keeping on the counter when new ideas popped up.
I decided I liked her eagerness to use the word "we" a lot more than I could have realized.