Page 8 of Her Mercenary
“I know.”
And she did. The woman was as confident and sure of herself as any I’d met before her. Problem was, Francisca was eternally lonely. Understandable, I guess, after losing her only two sons to gang-related gunfights, then dedicating her life to law enforcement to help ensure no other mother would experience the torment she had.
A torment I knew far too well.
Francisca blew out a breath. “Truth?”
“There’s no other option between us.”
“I bought the perfume myself.” She smiled softly, almost sheepishly. “Turns out, my rent has been paid for the entire year by an anonymous Irish businessman with more wealth than he knows what to do with.” Emotion sparkled in her eyes.
I dipped my chin.
Francisca sniffed, then looked away, shaking off the pesky emotions. I didn’t do sentimental thank-yous, and she knew that.
“Anyway,” she said with a smile, “because of this little surprise, I bought myself a bottle of nice perfume.”
“Good for you. Now, tell me why you bought it.”
“To smell good. By the way, that suit you have on is impeccable.”
“It’s Tom Ford, and I thought you were going to be honest.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “I bought it because yes, I have been seeing a new man. His name is Anthony Castillo. He’s a security guard at the bank down the block.” She set a few more fresh napkins next to my drink. “Let me know what the background check says.” She winked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And really, Roman, you don’t need to be so protective of me.”
When I didn’t respond, she changed tack. “So. How many will be joining you tonight?”
“Just one.”
“Yes, sir.” Francisca leaned in, poured the whiskey into the glass, and whispered, “Someone met the senator earlier, in the hallway by the bathrooms. A tall, balding man wearing a navy suit over a white dress shirt. An American. He was alone—didn’t order anything. Left promptly after. I tried to get a look at the car but missed it. If he comes back, I’ll be watching, and I’ll get the license plate.”
“Did they exchange anything?”
“Only words.”
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Thank you, Francisca.”
She nodded, then disappeared into the kitchen.
I sipped, eyeing the crowd over the rim of my glass, settling on the senator who’d recently traveled to a small seaside town where a large human-trafficking sale went down. It was a loose connection, but one worth investigating nonetheless, especially considering he frequented my bar.
“Roman.”
My attention shifted to the six-foot-seven monster in a brown suit approaching from the side. Always from the side.
“Kieran.” I stood.
We shook hands as Francisca returned and poured another glass of whiskey.
“The bar is crazy tonight,” Kieran said as he settled into the booth.