“Because your meetings were all pushed forward or back. You have five today.”
“Let me guess.” I grit my teeth. “My father.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck. Doesn’t he know I have a business to run?” I bark. I’m not upset with her, obviously. But I am very annoyed.
“I told him today wouldn’t be easy because your schedule is a little tight, but he insisted it was important.”
“Isn’t it always,” I mutter.
I look over the schedule myself. I know why he wants to meet. El Paso is on the move, which means there are a lot of parts flying in a lot of directions. We need to lock down and make sure everything is in place.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and consider popping a shot of whiskey in my coffee. The only reason I don’t is because it would change the temperature and right now, it’s damn near perfect. Like that dress I’m trying not to stare at.
After a beat, she speaks. “Did you need anything else from me, sir?”
“No,” I answer flatly.
And with that, her heels click across the tile. I catch one tiny glimpse of her hips swaying beneath the dress before the door closes behind her, cutting me off from the only thing I actually wish I was doing right now.
Her.
As I sit down at my desk, I drum my fingers for a moment. My bad mood, courtesy of Anton Rozanov, hangs in the air. But as I sit alone, the smoke clears enough that I am able to think about the interaction Amara and I just had.
She was professional. Attentive. And… aloof. But not in a mad at me sort of way. I know how she gets when she wants to keep me at arm’s length. She gets salty and makes bad choices. Choices I have to reprimand.
No. The way she was acting just now was more like she’s bothered by something. Like she has an issue pressing on her mind, one that has nothing to do with me.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to think about it. I have a meeting with Saudi Arabia in ten, and it’s a snowball after that.
Whatever is on the mind of the girl I can’t get off my own mind will have to wait.
“We’re in business, boys.” Anton steeples his hands, a smirk on his thin lips. “We have three trucks headed southwest. When they hit their checkpoint, three more will be headed northeast. Like ships in the night, except they’ll stop for an exchange.”
“So A, B, and C are headed this way. They break and then unload into D, E and F at the checkpoint before heading back for another run?” I ask.
He takes a sip of whiskey. “Nothing gets past you.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not, and I’m not in a guessing mood today.
But whatever I may or may not have been about to say, Baron interrupts. “All due respect, Uncle, but why take the risk of a swap at all? Why not drive the trucks straight through?”
Baron is not one to get ballsy with the sensitivities of the Bratva. But he’s smart, and if he sees it fit to speak his mind, he does.
I lean back in my chair, pointing at my cousin as my eyes stay on my dad. “I feel like aships in the nightmetaphor would mean they are passing each other, not meeting.”
“The trucks are labeled differently depending on their dock. Las Cruces labels look suspicious in NYC.”
“Not for OTR,” I argue. “And I agree with Baron. A trade off of that much product in the middle of nowhere is much riskier than a trucker looking lost.”
“It’s a secure hub. No one goes in or out except for Apex. No one bats an eye.”
“So you’re just unloading and reloading over five hundred pounds of blow every week in the middle of nowhere.”
“If you have a problem with the way I run this business, say it.”
“Let’s just say in a few months I’ll be handling things differently.”
