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)
Life had certainly taken quite the turn over the past week or so.
I'd just been living my life in California, sleeping in my shoebox of an apartment, driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic day in and day out to get to a job that, while fulfilling, made it difficult to ever plan on getting ahead in life. My biggest problem had been having to drag my laundry across town because the laundry room in my apartment complex was always out of order.
And now I had been to and back from my homeland, was holed up in a hotel in Jersey, and being actively chased down by the mafia.
The me I had been a week ago would have snort-laughed over the very idea, then gone back to drinking the drip coffee I made at home that I was trying to convince myself tasted as good as the fancy lattes that simply weren't in my budget for the rest of the month.
Reaching up, I scrubbed a hand over sandpaper-dry eyes, suddenly wishing I had been interested in martial arts in my teens instead of cross country running. Or that I had any idea how to get a gun around these parts.
Back home, I knew what neighborhoods to turn into to ask, that was for sure. Here? Not so much. And I figured it was a bad idea to walk up to a stranger and ask for a gun if they weren't in that particular business.
Pissing off more criminals sounded like a bad idea at this point.
Not that I thought I'd be any good with a gun even if I got my hands on one. I knew how one worked, of course. They weren't exactly rocket science. But I wasn't sure how good I'd be at pointing it at someone and pulling the trigger.
Besides, what were the chances that, if it came to a face-to-face, I would be able to pull and point a gun faster than a man who'd likely had his first machine gun when he was in elementary school?
I just had to be even more careful, quicker.
And to be quicker, I needed to make sure I didn't miss a single ship as it came in.
I got up, grabbing my notebook out of my purse, flicking on the TV, and grabbing the room temperature energy drink I'd picked up earlier, knowing I was going to need a kick of caffeine, and not being nearly bold enough to use the ancient coffee pot that came with the hotel room. And, well, going downstairs to get a coffee from the dispenser would mean putting on pants. When given a choice, not putting on pants was always the better option.
Especially in this heat.
I situated myself back on the seat with my setup, going over my notes, checking some off, underlining others, making a map of the containers, of where I knew the cameras were, trying to come up with a new course of action to evade the likely doubled security for the next evening.
Eventually, despite the caffeine, sleep claimed me, albeit fleetingly.
A car alarm going off made me shoot forward in my chair, heart hammering in my chest, everything around me feeling hazy and foreign for an alarmingly long moment before I remembered where I was, why I was here.
"Shit," I snapped, whipping my head over my shoulder, checking out the time.
Five-fifty a.m.
I could have already missed a ship or two.
"Damnit," I grumbled, reaching for the binoculars on my lap, trying to force my still-tired eyes to focus.
Foreign ships.
But none from South America.
That meant I had just enough time for a quick shower, change, and a trip down to the first floor to grab some continental breakfast when it opened after six.
Armed with a coffee, juice, a bagel, and a single serving box of Honey Nut Cheerios to eat as a snack later, I made my way back to the room, doing an impressive balancing act to get the keycard in, if I did say so myself.
All for nothing, of course.
Because one foot inside with the door slamming behind me, I dropped everything, coffee splashing all across the ugly carpet.
Because there, sitting in my office chair like he owned the joint, was the man from the night before.
Mr. Grassi, the son.
"Seems like an appropriate place for a meal like that," he said, his voice smooth, deep, sure of himself. "Don't," he demanded, tapping his leg, drawing my gaze to the gun situated there. "Just relax, Romina," he added, and my name slipped a little too nicely off his tongue.
"Romy," I corrected, knee-jerk.
"Romy," he repeated. "Luca Grassi," he told me, cold gaze unnerving.
"Mr. Grassi," I said, hearing the quiver in my voice, knowing of all the possible ways this could go much, much worse.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what I do?"
"Yes."
"And yet you thought you could trespass on my business."