Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Lars in not appeased by Aslan’s silence on the matter. “Tell me, Turk, who of us would gain from Egon being knocked out of the game?”
I’m not in the mood for this mindless debate, but Aslan is fucking with some serious men here tonight. Tensions are rising, and I need to restore the calm. With a light snuffle, I roll my eyes. “None of us have gained directly from Egon Baris being taken out, but in saying that, we are businessmen.” I grin around the table, easing the strain. “The question is not who would gain from that Albanian psychopath losing his place in our world.” A few of the men chuckle, while others smile in agreement. “The question is who of us would be stupid enough to not want to replace the services he no longer provides?”
The men break out into enthusiastic laughter, clapping and nodding in agreement at the words I have said that all the others were thinking. And Aslan’s solemn spell is over.
I look Aslan in the eye, my own holding a warning, as I admit, “Because I would be all over that.” I lift my tumbler to my lips and throw it back, downing the contents in one smooth gulp, slamming my glass onto the table with a solid clink. “In a fucking heartbeat.”
Elias Munoz, American-Argentinian boss of Los Gatos Negros, the guys you go to for all your party drug needs, raises his glass to me. “Well said, Julius. Insightful, as always.”
I incline my head to him in silent thanks as a topless waitress comes over with a fresh tumbler of ouzo. Discreetly, I check my wristwatch and sigh at the display.
10:07 p.m.
Fuck me.
I fight the urge to run a hand over my eyes and sigh tiredly. This get-together will last well into the night, and I’m stuck in a room full of horny men, when I could be in my bed, sleeping beside a walking wet dream.
Figures that time would move slower than ever tonight.
My fingers tap against the solid marble of the table, and I stare at the wall, thinking about what Alejandra would possibly tell me tomorrow. Nothing much shocks me anymore. All I can hope for is something I can use to help her, to set her free.
Free.
I frown at the word.
In my opinion, freedom is overrated.
The man tells us we have freedom of speech, but cuts us down when we say something that doesn’t meet his ideals. We have freedom to go where we please but are told to follow the path laid out for us. We’re told to speak our minds, but constantly have our mouths sewn shut, ordered to listen to those who apparently know better.
No.
Freedom is definitely overrated.
Besides, it’s not like Alejandra will ever truly be free. She will be allowed a taste of it through me. The cost of her freedom comes at a high price, and when the time is right, I’ll lay it on her, and something tells me she’s going to be pissed as hell when it all comes to light.
It doesn’t sit right with me, keeping it from her, but I know in my gut that after the smoke clears, she’ll take my gesture for what it is. The ultimate act of protection.
The minutes pass slowly, and I don’t bother initiating conversation with anyone. I’m not much of a talker on the best of days. My attention is elsewhere, when a woman dressed in a black suit enters the room and bends at the waist to speak into the ear of Luka Pavlovic, nicknamed the Croatian Sensation by women everywhere, owner of the establishment we sit in right at this very moment, and because I don’t have my eyes on him, I miss the way he scowls at me.
“Julius, brother.” From across the table, he all but growls, “You have a caller.”
Silence, clear enough to hear a pin drop.
All eyes on me.
Well, fuck.
This is not good. A cardinal rule broken. You never reveal the location of a meet and, lord knows, I didn’t. So who did?
I can’t hide my bewilderment. “Excuse me?”
The woman stands by Luka and relays the message. “A gentleman has asked to see you, Mr. Carter. He’s waiting in conference room two.”
My eyes settle on Luka, and I respond calmly, sincerely, “I swear I don’t know what this is about. I didn’t tell a goddamned soul where I was going to be tonight.”
The expression on my face must reveal my honesty, because, after a long moment of staring me down, Luka’s posture eases. He lifts his glass, sipping at it before placing it back on the table. “Then by all means”—he waves an arm towards the door—“see to your unexpected guest.”
I stand, straighten my jacket and exit the room. Walking down the hall, I pause when I come to stand in front of the door with the bold number two on it. In the back of my mind, I wonder if this is a set-up. I wonder if the man is Gio. Unconsciously, I reach into the breast of my jacket and grip the handle of my .45-caliber gun, taking it out of its holster and holding it by my side just in case.