Page 85 of Tainted Blood
“How’s Lola?” I mumble, as we reach the corner of the block.
“In a permanent state of nausea.” His phone beeps, and he glances at the message. “Her new best friend is the toilet bowl, closely followed by root ginger and chamomile tea.”
I can’t help smiling at this. “My mom said she was the same when she was pregnant with me. She swears it’s hereditary, so I’m totally screwed.”
He falls silent again. I’m straying into a field that’s loaded with land mines, and he’s bracing himself for shrapnel.
“Do you want kids, Santi?” I ask quietly
“Figured they’d always be a part of my future at some point,” he says, staring straight ahead. “Like erectile dysfunction, bad digestion and retirement homes.”
I burst out laughing.
“You?” he asks.
“Definitely,” I say, surprising myself.
Truth is, I’d never really thought about it before now, but there’s something about this evening’s clear warm night. Even the lights of New York can’t keep the stars from shining, and it’s making me want to break all the rules and talk secrets.
The diner is small and busy, but we find a blue leather booth at the end of the row.
I watch him slide in and stretch his arm out along the back of his seat, dominating the space and my attention at the same time.
Our waitress hands us two sticky menus and disappears.
Santi slaps his onto the table and glances about the diner, constantly checking and assessing until RJ and Rocco enter. They take up position at the counter, beneath a TV showing classic baseball game reruns. When I swing my gaze back to Santi, he’s staring right at me.
I blush and drop my eyes to the menu, recognizing a glitch in the whole conversation-in-a-relationship thing. We’re not at “small talk” anymore, but, at my instigation, we’re nowhere near “dirty talk” either. We’re stuck in the middle at a place called familiarity, which has giant black potholes in its roads.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Two shit coffees it is, then.”
I watch him raise his hand to our waitress. We’re sitting right under a spotlight, and I see the dark shadows under his eyes when he turns to give her our order.
“How’s Legado?” I ask, as soon as she disappears.
“Going down like a ship in a shitstorm.” He rakes his hand through his hair and grimaces. “Anyone who tells you there’s no such thing as bad publicity is a fucking liar. They’ve clearly never had two mass shootings and an abduction on their premises, either… But enough about my business, I want to hear about yours. Tell me about IFDF. I looked up the acronym on the internet and ended up on a porn site.”
I can’t help laughing again. “It stands for the International Freedom & Dignity Federation. It’s a privately owned NGO with projects all over the world. Their head office is here in New York.”
“How do they operate?”
“Do you really want to know, or are you just making polite conversation?”
“I’m a cartel boss, Thalia,” he says, arching one eyebrow at me. “To me, conversations aren’t polite; they’re a necessary evil. But with my wife, they’re essential, and occasionally enjoyable. Please continue.”
“They receive funding from donors like USAID, UN Agencies and other high-net private foundations.”
“What kind of stuff do you handle? Who do you help?”
“Mainly victims of anti-sex trafficking and sexual exploitation, human trafficking and modern slavery. The project we just submitted today focuses on the rescue and rehabilitation of children and young girls in West Africa…” I stop when I realize he’s staring at me again. “Shit, am I boring you?”
“Not in the slightest. I love hearing about what you do. I love hearing you speak about anything other than the fucking weather, if I’m honest. Is this one of the Senator’s legitimate side businesses? If so, nice of him to help his boss’s daughter out.”
“Senator Sanders is one of the founding members, yes, but I only requested a foot in the door,” I grit out, hurt at his insinuation. “I still had to go through the whole interview process, and I’m starting as a project coordinator…”