Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
I pinch the bridge of my nose, considering the information. Why would the old man kill his own granddaughter and his grandson-in-law? The only plausible explanation is that they discovered his treasure and decided to dip their hands in his crate. I can’t think of another reason that would motivate him to make orphans of his great-grandchildren and saddle him with their care.
“What do you want me do?” Fred asks.
“Report it. I need death certificates.”
“What do I say about the discovery?”
“You can say I found the grave. I’m away on business, but when I get back, I’ll make a statement.”
He sighs. “I hope you can pull those strings you said you can, because I really like my job here.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”
“Okey dokey. If you say so.”
I’m about to hang up when he says, “Oh, and Angelo? Now we’re quits. No more favors.”
I chuckle as I end the call. He’ll jump when I tell him to.
The wind has picked up. Heavy clouds hang dark in the sky. A moment later, rain pelts the windowpanes of the cabin. The swell rises to a few meters, bobbing the boat like a cork on the choppy surface. Being used to rough seas, the violent water doesn’t faze me. I get some work done before relieving the skipper at the helm so that he can take a much-needed break. Navigating through a storm is physically and mentally exhausting.
For the next three hours, I focus on nothing but the battle with the violent elements of nature. By the time the lights of Marseille come into view, we’ve outrun the storm.
The café where Hugo dines is in the port district. The men I pay to keep my business tidy in France are waiting when we dock. A few flank me while the rest go ahead to do reconnaissance. A man standing guard at the top of the cobblestone street nods when I arrive, letting me know the coast is clear.
I make my way down the alley and open the door with the cabaret-style letters spelling the name on the glass. It’s too warm inside. Smells of paprika, onions, and fried fish hang in the air. The chatter is loud. All the tables in the small space are occupied. The clientele are men. They’re mostly dock workers who come in for a hearty, affordable meal after a long day of labor. They’re the tough kind, the people Hugo hangs out with because many of them do illegal business on the side, and cops like Hugo collect their kickbacks in exchange for turning a blind eye.
My men enter behind me. The diners look up. The room goes quiet. Hugo stills in the middle of shoving fish stew into his mouth. His ruddy cheeks pale as recognition sparks in his eyes. He squirms in his chair when two of my men take up a position next to him.
The owner catches the gaze of a burly woman who puts a bowl of steaming fish soup in front of a customer and tilts his head toward the back. She scurries away and disappears through the kitchen door. The owner is next. He knows who I am. Everyone in the city does.
One by one, the customers abandon their meals and file through the door. When Hugo makes to get up, my man pushes him down with a hand on his shoulder. Another man locks the door.
Hugo swallows as I sit down opposite him.
There’s nothing I hate more than wasting time. As I already lost too many precious hours by coming from Corsica to meet this fucker not once but twice, I cut to the chase. “You lied to me.”
His choice of defense is ignorance. “What are you talking about?”
I narrow my eyes. “Stop fucking wasting my time. My wife never cut a deal.”
He raises his palms. “Hey, I only told you what Lavigne said.”
He tries to act brave, but the trickle of sweat rolling down his temple gives him away.
I take the gun from my waistband and get comfortable in my seat as I point the barrel between his legs under the table. “Have you seen how much a man bleeds when you shoot off his nuts?”
The little color that’s left on his face vanishes. “Make me a deal.”
I caress the trigger, feeling the familiar curve of the metal and the perfect fit against my finger. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“Fine.” He grabs a paper napkin and wipes his brow. “Give me your guarantee that I’ll walk out of here.”
I smile. “If you don’t talk, you’ll crawl out of here without your dick. The only thing I guarantee is that you’ll either bleed out like a pig or never fuck again.”
He cuts a jittery gaze around the room. Trapped. The realization reflects in the nervous twitch of his beady eyes.