I grit my teeth against the urge to follow them or, worse yet, demand they return to the house where I can lock them inside and keep them safe. I shouldn’t want to lock people up and keep them captive, not when said people are my nephew and his governess, but the urge to keep them near me all the time grows like a cancer inside me.
Get back to work.
I open the spreadsheet.
It’s updated, and it makes me happy to see that Mr. Bono elected to remain on my ark. He’s worked for me for over two years, and this is his fifth child. I never sent his wife flowers before, but I put in a request with my sister in case she finds time for our family business while she’s away.
On the spreadsheet, I sort the bidders for the warhead and select the top three potential buyers, one of whom might be the original bidder I and law enforcement around the world are looking for. But the urge to know Lake’s and Leo’s whereabouts and protect them just in case a meteor falls down on us all is too strong to resist.
Ever since my baby sister died in a stupid accident, the compulsion to ensure Leo and Val are safe has taken over my life. Val suggested therapy, but I refused, knowing I have a serious problem, and if “cured,” I’d have to accept my baby sister’s death. I’m not ready to do that. Maybe I never will be.
I give myself half an hour before I execute on my protective urges. It’s enough time to reason with myself and reject the idea of following Lake and Leo.
The island is safe.
They are safe.
Nothing is going happen to her. Nothing at all. She just wants a Sunday off.
I won’t follow them. But I also can’t sit around without knowing exactly where they are.
I dial the island patrol, who locate the pair at the Easy Bar. I get the idea they’re having lunch with an older couple. In the next ten minutes, I know everything there is to know about the couple, and the head of the patrol (a special forces veteran) assures me the couple is harmless.
I call the Easy Bar.
“Hello,” a man shrieks at me.
I check the phone again to make sure I dialed the correct number.
“Hello,” he repeats, emphasizing the letter O in a way that communicates annoyance. I think it’s time for another lecture. On proper telephone etiquette, this time.
“I believe I called the Easy Bar,” I say.
“Yeah, you did. How can I help you?” I hear the noise of people requesting drinks. I imagine Sundays are busy, and he’s loud because of the music, but still.
“Easy Bar is a place of business, is it not?” I ask.
“Yeah?” Theduhcomes across clearly.
“Yes,sir,” I correct. “When you pick up a phone at your place of business, the answer isn’tyeah.The answer isyes, Mr. Angelinioryes, sir.Screeching into the phone as if you’re expecting your cockatoo mate on the other line is unacceptable.” I hang up, give the bartender time to adopt my brand of penicillin for his brand of manners, which I don’t want to spread through the island like a disease. A public health service to be sure.
I redial.
“Adonis speaking, how can I help you?”
I smile. “This is Mr. Angelini. I know you’re busy, and I apologize for the inconvenience, but I have a request. The people at the table under the pink umbrella with theQuencheerlogo, do you see them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look after them. The boy is my nephew.” And that’s his governess, but I don’t want to tell him to look after Lake. Thinking about the bartender ogling Lake makes me want to scoop out his eyeballs with a jigger.
“No problem, sir.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
“Anytime, sir.”
Now that the pair of them are under watch, I can work on world peace. That nuclear warhead I mentioned? Well, it’s stolen property that the crew Miro offed on the yacht sold before I secured it for myself, which means I stole it from under the noses of some powerful bad people.
