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)
J.P. chuckled. “But, you will talk to him—”
“I will, but understand this. I want to be at the dinner tomorrow night—”
“There is no need for you to be at the dinner—”
“Make sure they have two chairs for Kaz and me, or any talk about Moscow is done.” I hung up.
Kaz studied me. “The Butcher?”
“Yes, and. . .we have a problem.”
He began pushing the stroller forward. “Tell me everything.”
Chapter twenty-nine
What Would the Mouse Do?
Emily
Our little convoy strolled through the multicolored streets of the French Quarter—Kaz, Emilio, Max, Paolo, Harlem, me, and a whole army of tattooed security, wielding guns at their sides.
With each block tons of women stole glances at Kaz, and crowds of surprisingly already drunk people instinctively gave way to our imposing entourage.
It was super interesting how most received us.
The curious glances from onlookers ranged from subtle double-takes to more overt stares as they tried to reconcile the sight of our family, accompanied by such an armed entourage.
Many people pointed and gazed our way, probably wondering who the hell we were.
Others took out their phones to capture a video or picture. Kaz’s men promptly grabbed their phones, scrolled through their galleries, and deleted any such video or photo.
Meanwhile, the whole walk, I summarized as much as I could for Kaz—the Colombian’s black-market organ harvesting, the Mexican’s wanting their leader out of the US prison, and the billionaire who would do anything for a heart.
The whole time, Kaz remained silent.
And in between yapping, I took in the Quarter.
Brightly painted buildings—in pastel hues of pink, green, and yellow—lined the cobblestone paths. Each building boasted ornate wrought iron balconies, some adorned with potted plants and colorful window shutters.
Jazz melodies twirled and danced within the sweltering Louisiana air.
Kaz—the new doting father—pushed the stroller with a huge smile on his face, even as I broke down every gruesome detail from J.P.
Emilio, lay comfortably ensconced. Occasionally, he reached out his tiny hands as if to grasp the colors and sounds that swirled around him.
Up ahead, Max, Paolo, and Harlem were a whirlwind of energy and laughter, engaging with the world in a way that only they could.
My heart swelled with love for this moment—so simple, yet so rich in sensations and emotions.
We stopped by a congregation of street artists.
Here, the scent of oil paint ran thick in the air.
Each stationed themselves before large easels. Their canvases displayed the life and soul of New Orleans.
I finished unloading the heavy details to Kaz, and a sudden fuss from the stroller caught our attention.
Emilio whimpered and scrunched up his tiny face in discomfort.
“Aww.” I tried to walk to the front of the stroller.
“No, mysh.” Kaz held up his hand to stop me. “Mommy always consoles. Sometimes the Lion wants to calm his cub.”
I smiled. “Okay, baby.”
Kaz moved to the front of the stroller.
As he leaned down, his biceps flexed.
Emilio sobbed some more.
With a gentle ease Kaz lifted Emilio out of the stroller and spoke in Russian, “What is wrong? Tell papa.”
Emilio’s transition from discomfort to calm was immediate, as if our son recognized the security in his father’s arms.
Emilio sniffled and looked up at him.
Smirking, Kaz wiped Emilio’s tears. “The stroller is not as comfortable as my arms?”
Emilio rested his head against his chest and relaxed.
“You are becoming as spoiled as me.” Kaz chuckled. “Can our mouse handle two spoiled lions?”
A group of women nearby, who had been casting stolen glances in our direction, suddenly became more animated and pointed our way. Their excited sighs and murmurs filled the air, and I knew that their attention was fixed not only my adorable baby but on the man whose huge, muscular arms cradled him.
Some of these chicks are about to get shot. Like. . .it’s too much.
I gazed back at my two babies, gushed at the sight too, and decided to leave the women alone. The display of masculinity and tenderness was just too much of a panty-wetting combination for any healthy women to resist.
Fine. I’ll let them live.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of possessiveness mixed with pride. Kaz was mine, and our family unit was a sacred circle that others could only ever gaze upon from the outside.
Kaz put his view on me. “So, we have black market organ harvesters in Colombia?”
“Yes, the Cali Cartel.”
“Then, there are the Mexican transporters.”
“From Sinaloa Cartel.”
“Next, we have the. . .what did Jean-Pierre call him?”
“The bankster.”
“Yes.” Kaz gently rocked our son back and forth. “The bankster.”
“Meanwhile, J.P. is on his way to be the new broker, since the Alligator Don is dead.”
“Which is all a cute coincidence.”
I quirked my brows. “What do you mean?”
“The victims are Haitian migrants?”
I nodded.
“King David was uneasy about our meeting with Delphine and had a huge investigation done on her, before we planned the trip.”
Shock came out how all of this could connect to Delphine.