Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
“That’s all very nice. But none of your dots are connecting for me.”
He holds up the envelope. “What is this?”
“What is it? It’s the fuckin’ truth, that’s what it is. The world doesn’t run on money. It doesn’t run on oil, either. It runs on pain. And sex. And violence. And children.”
Romero nods, his expression unchanged. “I see. What does this have to do with Irina?”
I exhale loudly, so tired of this fuckin’ life. “Your daughter, Nandy? She’s yours, right?” Romero nods. “She asked Irina how I, a complete stranger, had captivated her. Moved her in. Et cetera. It’s because we come from the same place.” I nod to the envelope. “I’m not sure where Irina started out in the beginning. I don’t know who made her. I don’t think she ever had parents. She was probably bred for it. So in that respect, we’re different. But we both ended up in the fight camps as children.”
“Fight camps?” He has no fuckin’ clue what I’m talking about.
“Training camps. Owned, like slaves. Trained to fight like fuckin’ roosters. Death fights. We come from death fight camps, Romero.”
“Where are these camps?”
“Everywhere. But mine were mostly in the Middle East. Irina got lucky—she was only ever in Brazil.”
Romero looks at the envelope, his brow nothing but deep furrows. Then he looks up at me. “There is nothing about death fights in here.”
“No. There’s not. Because that’s just a bit of insurance that the slave owners kept on each other.”
Romero swallows hard, his jaw set so tight, there are veins popping out of his neck.
“I’m gonna stop you there, Romero.” I shake my head at him. “There is no point in getting angry. Because there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Says who? You?”
I shrug with my hands. “Everyone wants to be a hero. But trust me”—I point to the envelope—“that’s just where it starts. There are thousands of them. Tens of thousands of them. They run everything. Every fuckin’ country. Every fuckin’ army. Every fuckin’ corporation. They. Are. Everywhere.”
I walk over to him and put out my hand. He stares at it for a moment, then gives me the envelope. I turn and place it back on the coffee table like it was never disturbed.
Then I face him again. “I’m gonna tell you something now, and I hope to God ya hear me. You can’t do anything about this. And if you start talking, Romero? One night you’re gonna get a phone call and the news is gonna be bad. Very, very bad.”
“Is that a threat?”
I laugh. “From me? Come on. I’m no one. I’m Dead Eyes. Some washed-up fuckin’ Ring fighter who can hardly get out of bed most days. It’s not me ya gotta worry about, it’s the rest of them.” I let out a breath. “Please. Just hear me, please. Do not tell anyone about what you saw in that envelope. Those men are all dead, anyway. Irina killed one of them herself.”
His eyes go big.
“She doesn’t need protecting. At least, not from you. I’m doing my best here. I am. But if you go blabbing about what ya saw, you’re gonna make everything so much worse. And you’re not gonna win, Romero. You’re not. They’ll pick off your family one by one. They’ll frame you. Slip some CP onto your computer and turn you into a sexual deviant. You’ll lose everything. Do ya really wanna lose everything and then leave this world with them writin’ your story? Changing it all up? Erasing all the good things you did and replacing them with the most heinous of crimes?”
He slumps a little, feeling defeated, probably. “I can’t unsee that shit. I won’t be able to sleep.”
“No. I’m sorry ya had to see it in the first place. But you need to let us handle this. Make me a promise, Romero. Please. Don’t start talking. Don’t start plotting. It’s not gonna work.”
We stare at each other for a few more moments. I’m wound so tight, I nearly spring apart when he finally nods. “OK. I won’t say anything.”
I exhale slowly, trying not to show my relief.
“How is Irina?”
I glance at the bedroom door, then meet Romero’s gaze. “She’s not in a good place. But her people are coming.”
“What people?”
“Her old trainer. Maybe a few others. From Brazil.”
“Are they going to take her away?”
I shrug. “I dunno.”
“If they do, can you please ask her to come see us before she leaves?” His face is so sad. I really do believe he’s one of the good ones. But that’s just all the more reason for him to keep his family out of this.
The good guys don’t win. Because the good guys play fair and that word doesn’t even exist in the vocabulary of these monsters who run the world. The good guys have limits. And in the war between good and evil, there are no rules.