Page 128 of Heartfelt Pain
“If she hadn’t told Ren about what was going on, what he was up to, Cliff would’ve killed her.”
“Did you know about this?” Dima asks Dad.
“No.” He shakes his head.
“You knew.” The words are faint to my own ears.
Mom lifts a bony hand, cupping my face. “Open your car shop, Roma. But do not launder money through it. And nofavors for anyone. Not even a free oil change. People get so upset at perceived favors.”
I shake my head slightly.
“And they will try. Especially, the Irish. They’re always looking for new businesses to tear apart.”
“Mom. . .”
“Be happy, Roma.” It’s a request. My fingers curl around her. She says one more thing. “Call Andrea Petrova.”
I don’t follow, but then neither does anyone else.
Mom states directly to Dima, “Call Andrea Petrova.”
He’s sitting with his arms crossed, his shoulders slumped like usual. “Andrea? What’s she got to do with any of this. . .”
“Nothing.” She pats my cheek, pulling out of my grasp. “But ask her what her husband is up to.”
He straightens, a realization sparking in his eye. “Oh, that British bastard.”
CHAPTER 30
Ren
Abe, as expected, is the first to get annoyed.
“You can’t be serious?” he asks, being absolutely rubbish at helping me move a long table into the center of the empty warehouse. Isolde uses her hip to help me push the thing.
“What?” I ask, tripping on my heel as I get the desk positioned. Trevino and Ben add chairs.
“What?” Abe’s voice echoes in the airy warehouse. “What is this? Are we about to host an audition to be the next greatest pop star?”
Isolde plops into a seat, crossing an ankle over her knee. She pulls a joint out.
I wave at her to put it away. Slightly put out, she stuffs it back in her hoodie pocket. If Abe continues on, I might have her break it out again.
“It’s a good old fashioned meet and greet,” I explain. “A little mingle, some networking you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Abe glares at Ben when he sits down in the chair next to me. “All these peoplemade you an offer to buy the business. You’re seriously going to line them up and do an interview. These are high powered people.”
“Are they here yet?” I ask Trevino. He’s looking good in a suit, the tailored jacket highlighting his broad shoulders. Isolde didn’t say it, but I know she’s thinking the same thing.
“Mr. Chin is pulling up. Some Stuart twat is here too, and the guy with the weird looking mustache.”
“Weird looking mustache?” Abe is momentarily pulled away from his original complaint as he turns toward a window.
“Come sit down.” I wave him over.
“I understand interviews,” Abe says. “But this is a bit weird. And you don’t like taking interviews outside of Fujimori’s.”
“I don’t want potential owners trotting in and out of the place.” I pull a cigarette out. “Acting like they already own the place.”
