Page 71 of Bastard
My eyebrows lift.
The man next to me smiles at the question in my eyes. “See that man across the table? The one with the yellow tie?”
I turn my attention toward the man in question and am shocked to discover I recognize him. The blond man. He was with the South Africans who came to Nmimpi and demanded their truck be fixed. “Who is he?”
“Alexei, the Russian.”
“And he’s connected?”
“To the Russian mob.”
Dios. The mob? Are they buying uranium from Barrington too?
“Why are you sharing this with me?”
The man nods his head. “If Lorenzo and I are partners, we should really consider approaching the Russian about further extending our distribution channels.”
“And you’d like Lorenzo to approach him?”
“Well, we all would.”
They all nod in agreement, and I wonder just how many men at this table believe they’ve found a partner in Lorenzo.
I bite my lip and glance down at Hayden. But he’s too busy holding court for the friends of the woman he killed.
He’d want the Russian’s information, right? “Introduce me?”
“You?”
“Why not? Lorenzo is occupied now, isn’t he?”
“Very well.” He stands and pulls out my chair. Together, we make our way around the table.
“Alexei. I’d like to introduce Lorenzo’s wife—”
“Emilia. Yes. I’m aware of vho she is.”
I swallow hard and offer him a weak smile. He doesn’t mean Nmimpi, does he? The South Africans were led to believe only one foreigner—Donovan—lived in the village. Am I taking too much of a risk in approaching him? Did I make a mistake?
“Her husband,” the man who introduced us says, “is—”
“Ze’sfool for not paying attention she deserves. If you vere mine, I wouldn’t vant to leave yourside.”
The sound of a bell interrupts us. “Mr. Ogdenhayer asks that everyone be seated.”
“Come on.” The man who did the introductions urges.
“I’ll be right there.”
He hurries off. But before I continue with the Russian, I glance at Hayden for approval. Our eyes connect, and without words, I understand what I need to do. I lean toward the Russian. “What room are you staying in?”
His grin is as wide as the dining table is long.
“Please be seated,” a voice booms.
“Quickly, write it down for me. Or better yet, if you have a business card then I can contact you ...”
I hold my breath as he reaches into his suit pocket and then holds up his card.
