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)
I'd been running marathons since I was fifteen. It said something that he—a man who had some weight on me—could keep up when I was going at full tilt. That said, that weight was clearly all muscle, judging by the way that suit hung on him.
It was a nice suit, too. Black, perfectly tailored, a pristinely pressed white shirt underneath, cufflinks at his wrists. When his arms were swinging, I caught sight of a platinum wristband. One I knew cost more than some people made in a year.
I knew a boss when I saw one.
Though, this man was too young to be Antony Grassi.
Apparently, he had a son.
One who looked like he was carved by one of the masters with his wide forehead, stern brows, sharp cheekbones, and cutting jaw.
Wrap that up with some tanned skin, chocolatey brown eyes that were framed by thick lashes that matched his dark brown, nearly black hair?
Then you had some idea about what this man looked like.
Even running, sweating, trying to chase me down so he could possibly murder me, his image was burned in my mind in the seconds before I shot out of the parking lot.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to bring some calm to my system, climbing out of my tiny little hatchback rental behind the hotel, wedging it behind the waste and recycling dumpsters. I knew it wouldn't be a problem, because when I caught the front desk clerk sneaking out for a smoke and asked, he'd told me, "I don't get paid enough to give a shit."
So that was where I left it.
Out of sight.
So that even if this Grassi guy had his lackeys doing a sweep of the town, he would never find me.
The hotel wasn't much to speak of. A tan stone building with an ostentatious overhang as if anyone staying here actually had a car service to drop them off.
It wasn't a hellhole. But if you were going to come this way, most people would stay at one of the fancy hotels closer to the shore. And this hotel acted like it understood its clientele were simply businessmen and women or visiting family members who would rather saw off a limb than sleep on the pull-out couch of their relative's living room, metal bars poking into their backs, some toilet running down the hall, everything smelling strange and un-homey.
At least hotels had that sterile scent of bleach and industrial cleaners, real mattresses, and someone to call and bitch to if something wasn't working in your room.
I chose it because it was the hotel with the best view of the port if you got a room high enough and in the back. Which I'd done.
"Home sweet home," I grumbled as I opened the door, being sure to put the chain on, then pulling off my belt, wrapping it around the pressure closer above the door, pulling it tight. Paranoid? Maybe. But if someone was going to attempt to get in this room, they'd have a hell of a time with it. And I would have a chance to throw a fit or call the police before they got to me.
The inside was about what you expected of a budget hotel with its ugly brown and tan patterned carpets, its white nightstands with cheap lamps flanking the queen-sized bed that was covered in a dark brown comforter and four sad, deflated pillows.
But the tan tile bathroom was clean.
The TV worked, though I only used it for background noise, trying to quiet my swirling thoughts.
And, most importantly, there were the glass sliding doors and the small balcony with a wrought iron railing of questionable strength.
Shucking off my pants, rummaging around for a tie to wrap up my long hair to get it off my sweaty neck, I grabbed the desk chair, dragging it back over toward the window where I'd left it before housekeeping had come in and moved it.
I grabbed the set of binoculars I'd bought at some hole in the wall feed store on the way through town, pulled open the doors, and sat down.
Objectively, I should have been sleeping. I'd maybe gotten two hours a night since I had taken a plane down to Venezuela a few days before. My mind refused to rest, though. Constantly whirling with what-ifs and regrets until I felt motion sick, nauseated, reaching for the pack of peppermints from my bag.
This should have been all over by now.
And the stress was eating a hole in my stomach lining.
The worst part was I had to go back. Even knowing they were onto me, even fully aware that security would likely be ramped up.
I had to go back.
There was no way around that.
It was all the more reason I should have been sleeping, making sure my mind and body were as sharp as they would need to be to get on those docks once again with the mob looking for me.