Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Ulysses shrugs. “We don’t pay fines. By now, it’ll be squashed already.”
I stare at him, my lips parted in indignation. I’ve just told him I want my husband to suffer, even if only in some small way, and he’s told me in not so many words that I should keep on wishing because Dante is untouchable, not only by the law but also by his wife.
Ulysses averts his gaze as if realizing his mistake. “Let’s go.”
I cross my arms. “I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”
He clenches his jaw but doesn’t argue. Turning to the driver, he says, “Go straight home. I’m right behind you.”
He slams the door and walks to the other car. I glance up at Jazz’s window. If Reino hurts her again, I’ll think of a million ways in which to make him suffer.
Winding down the window, I inhale the crisp air to clear my head, but all I get is a lungful of exhaust fumes.
The driver closes my window and locks the control. He offers me an apologetic smile in the rearview mirror. “For safety.”
I turn my face away. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. But with Dante’s reputation that’s all over the tabloids, I can’t help the ugly jealousy that twists me up inside.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Dante
* * *
After lunch, I walk Lexi back to my building.
“Thanks.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I guess I’ll grab a cab.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
I take my phone from my pocket and call one of my men.
She tips her face up to me. “Will I see you later?”
“Tomorrow.”
She looks disappointed, but she nods.
“Lexi,” I say with warning, continuing when I have her full attention. “We shouldn’t rush things. My wife may need time. She may not like the idea.”
“I understand.”
“I warned you not to hope.”
“I’m a big girl, Dante. I know what I can and can’t expect from you.”
The driver pulls up. Once I’ve seated her in the back of the car and given him her address, I call my own driver.
He arrives with two men.
I tell the driver where to go.
We get to the lookout point a good hour later. Viktor Skripchenko is already there, leaning against the hood of a gotta-have-it-green Ford Mustang. Two men flank him. As agreed, we didn’t bring more guards.
I check the drone footage on my phone to ensure I’m not walking into a trap, but the infrared cameras show the surroundings are clear.
My driver parks a hundred yards from our welcoming party. I get out on the dirt road, scouting the deserted fields.
Skripchenko keeps his gaze on my face as I walk over. He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him. He still has baggy eyes and a double chin.
“Pakhan,” I say, stopping a few paces away from him.
He straightens. “Dante Morici.”
We don’t shake hands. We’re not enemies, but we’re not friends either. For the sake of unnecessary bloodshed, we merely tolerate each other.
“It’s been a while,” he drawls. “You’ve climbed the ladder in the hierarchy. I didn’t think you’d make it this far. On how many people did you have to step to get to the top?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “We’re not all like you. Some of us get there on our own merit.”
He makes a mocking sound. “Did you ask for this meeting to tell me you’re going to pay your brother-in-law’s debt?”
“You know my history with Teszner better than that.”
“Indeed.” He crosses his arms and leans on the hood of his car again. “I heard you married his sister.” He studies me through squinted eyes. “And that she had your kid.”
I stiffen. “You heard right, but I’m not here to discuss my family.” I take my phone from my pocket and show him the photo of Gavril Dmitriev. “Care to tell me why this man tried to kill me?”
He raises on the balls of his feet to peer at the photo and then goes back to slouching on the hood. “He’s not one of my men.”
“He moved drugs for one of your middlemen.”
He shrugs. “As I said, not one of mine.”
“What about Naomi Foster?” I flick over the screen, pulling up her photo. “Does she ring a bell?”
“Pretty.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “In a cheap kind of way.” Meeting my gaze, he says in a level tone, “She never rang any bell of mine.”
I swipe to the photos of the mercenaries. “These men?”
“Common thugs.” He narrows his eyes. “What do they have to do with me?”
“I don’t know, Viktor. Nothing?”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Naomi Foster and these mercenaries were involved in my wife’s kidnapping. When Naomi offered to sell me information, someone took her out. Gavril Dmitriev was one of her regulars. When I approached him for a friendly chat, he threw a knife at me. I was just wondering if you knew how the puzzle pieces fit together.”