Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I consider that. I want to say nothing, but that will be arrogant, and arrogance is a weakness that can cost a man his life.
“Our strength is our weakness,” I say. “Being at the top of the food chain makes us a dangerous threat for many people.”
“Not Sabella?” he asks.
My body tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The fact that she may be working with the cops,” he says, leaning away from me as if he expects me to backhand him.
Fuck. I do feel like slamming my fist in his face, but he’s right. That is one big ugly fucking weakness. I know what they want. My family wants me to eliminate that risk, to slit her throat and dump her body in the sea. To leave her funeral to the sharks. And I should. If I were wise, I would. But I can’t. Because of what I sacrificed. Because she’s mine.
“You don’t have to worry about her,” I say with something close to a growl. “Not while she’s living in isolation. Is that clear?”
He swallows. “Yes, Angelo.”
“We’ll find out what I want to know, and then it’ll become our strength. Lavigne won’t even see us coming.”
Uncle Enzo walks over and lays a hand on his son’s shoulder before giving a squeeze. The gesture is subtle, but I don’t miss the warning aimed at shutting Gianni up.
For the rest of the trip, I try to work in my cabin, but memories of the night I spent here with Sabella and how I punished her assault me. I don’t know what’s worse—how much I hated her for making me do that to her or that a deviant part of me enjoyed putting marks on her flawless skin. I guess I am the sadist she accused me of being.
I check my phone again for a message from Heidi. Sabella ate her lunch. She spent the morning reading.
I type a reply and hit send. Which book?
Heidi’s answer comes a second later. Recipe books.
I frown. Recipe books? Sabella can’t boil an egg. She always had staff to cook for her. When she lived in the villa in Camps Bay, she bought ready-made meals from an upmarket organic health store. The sudden interest in cooking can only be attributed to the fact that at the new house, she has to prepare her own meals. I make a mental note to employ a cook.
The captain knocks on the door to tell me we’re approaching Marseille. I thank him and put my phone away. Then I get ready, tucking my gun into the back of my waistband before donning my jacket and coat.
Our men wait on the marina. A party of armed guards dressed in casual clothes escort us in cars to the café. The owner cleared out the place. He greets us respectfully.
Not relying on my uncle alone, I call one of my men over and double-check that my instructions were followed. He ensures me the place is free of bugs and that no one followed us.
We take our seats around the table while the owner serves beer. At one minute before the agreed time, Uncle Enzo’s contact walks through the door. He looks jumpy. A sheen of perspiration shines on his forehead, and the armpits of his jacket are dark with sweat.
He comes over with a cocky smile, trying to appear brave.
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the seat opposite me.
He sits. Crosses his legs. Uncrosses them again.
“Drink?” I ask, scrutinizing him.
“Whisky.” He drums his fingers on the table, looking around. “Please.”
He has thin blond hair brushed over a balding head. Blue, beady eyes are set in a round, puffy face. His cheeks are marred with red veins, a sign of a heavy drinker.
The owner puts a tumbler of whisky and a glass of water in front of him.
He downs the whisky and then sips the water.
“A little bird told me you can get access to information I may find helpful,” I say.
“Yeah.” He glances at Uncle Enzo. “About the lieutenant.”
“Yes.” I take in the nervous bouncing of his leg. “Of what he said to my wife when he arrested her.”
“The tape was wiped out,” he says, confirming what my informant already told me.
“Was anyone with him in the room?” I ask.
“Nope.” The guy sniffs and eyes his empty whisky glass. “He was alone in there. Impossible to know what transpired.”
I lean closer. “Why would he wipe out the tape?” I tense to breaking point at the next question. “What did he do to her?”
“Nothing indecent. That’s not his style. He probably would’ve cut her a deal.”
Violence boils up inside me. I remind myself it’s the lieutenant’s fault for dangling a carrot in front of my wife’s nose. Sabella isn’t to blame that he tempted her with the one thing she wants most. Her freedom. I’ll hold him accountable for leading her astray. That way, I only have to feed one body to the sharks.