Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Further up ahead, Kaz wore the biggest grin and guided the stroller into the elevator, flanked by a few of Emilio’s and his men.
The doors closed behind them.
A smile crept over my face.
It had been bitterly cold in Moscow, far too chilly to even think of taking Emilio out for a stroll.
But here, under the gentler sun, Kaz was finally getting his moment. It was almost comical, seeing a man—who had his hands in so many corners of the world—be so eager for something as simple as a walk with his son.
My babies.
It was funny, in a way, how life had a knack for revealing what truly mattered. In this world, Kaz’s every decision could move mountains, but now one of his greatest treasures was the quiet moments spent with Emilio.
Those moments, devoid of the weight of his power, wealth, and empire, where he could just be a dad.
Just then, Lemon appeared from around the corner, her timing impeccable as always. Her face held the usual stoic expression, but her eyes hinted at something more pressing waiting beneath the surface.
As my temporary number two, her presence was both a comfort and a signal that mafia shit was never too far away.
If she does a good job here, then she really will replace Giorgio.
At the same moment, Max’s phone rang, slicing through the ambient noise.
I watched him pull it out, glance at the screen, and promptly ignore it.
The same person is calling him again.
His face was a mask of indifference, but the slight tightening of his jaw didn’t escape me.
I eyed him. “Who’s that?”
“No one.”
“So then give me your phone so I can see.”
“Who are you? My chick now.” He quickly pocketed his phone. “Stop being nosy.”
“I’m trying to have your back.”
“What happened with Delphine last night?”
Tension gathered in my shoulders. “Let’s just have fun today, and I can talk more about it later.”
Max nodded. “And because I love you, I’m going to respect that. How I wish you would respect my little private shit over here.”
“Thought it was no one calling you.”
“It is no one. Anyway. . .let me help Paolo out up there. Harlem is dragging him around.” Max jogged five feet forward and strolled next to them.
You’re definitely hiding something.
Lemon got to my side.
I slowed my pace and looked at her. “Did you find out who was calling Max?”
Her voice remained neutral. “Ufuoma.”
I pressed on, needing to piece together the fragments of information that seemed to be slipping through my fingers. “And what did Louis say about Italy?”
“Louis said it is not his story to tell.”
“Fucking Louis.”
“Then Jean-Pierre called me this morning and said to keep my mouth closed and no longer pursue the matter further.”
The elevator returned to the floor and the doors opened.
Frustration bubbled inside me. “They’re all hiding shit from me because they don’t want Lunita to come out.”
It was a conclusion I was becoming increasingly certain of, the pieces of the puzzle aligning in a way that made sense, yet left me feeling uneasy.
I bet Ufuoma did something to Max, and they know I would kill her over it.
Lemon disturbed my thoughts. “What do you need me to do, Emily?”
“Nothing right now.” I pulled out my phone, dialed the Butcher, and placed the device at my ear. “I’ve got it.”
Up ahead, Max, Paolo, Harlem, and three guards crowded into the elevator.
The doors slid shut.
Meanwhile, the phone rang twice, before the line clicked, and Jean-Pierre’s voice filled the air. “You have impeccable timing.”
“Why?”
“We are boarding a plane to head your way.”
I stopped walking toward the elevator. “New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
Oh shit.
Jean-Pierre’s involvement meant the Cartel situation was super serious, yet I couldn’t help but feel a bit more grounded knowing he was coming. His expertise and calm demeanor had a way of making the insurmountable seem manageable. “Why are you coming?”
“Have you ever heard the term pissing contest?”
“Of course.”
“It makes sense. The first use of the term was in the United States. 1940 or 1943. Sometime around then—”
“J.P., where is this going?”
“Some have said pissing duel or pissing match, but regardless it is a game in which participants compete to see who can urinate the highest, the farthest, for the longest, or the most accurately.”
I smirked. “So, you’re coming to New Orleans to piss on us?”
“A pissing contest is usually associated with adolescent boys.”
“And?”
“Even more, pissing contests are not unique to humans.”
“Man, would you get to the point.”
“Lobsters have been known to hold copious amounts of urine so that during a duel, they can squirt it out through a pair of muscular nozzles beneath their antennas.”
“Why is this important?”
“Lobsters can shoot it out over five feet in front of them in a plume of liquid—”
“Alright. Now I won’t be eating lobster anytime soon.”
My men got behind me as we waited for the elevator to come back up.
“Emily, you ask why I am coming to New Orleans, and my answer is to referee a possible pissing contest of mega proportions.”