Page 45 of Finders Reapers

“Belarus.” He grunted. “Your questions are giving me a headache.”

“Belarus is part of Russia, isn’t it?”

“Belarus is its own country.” He told me, his accent thickening in offense.

I plastered a smile on my face. “Well, you learn something new every day!”

His eyes flicked to mine, and he eyed me as if I was an inch tall. “I’m certain you do.” He said dryly.

I tried not to take that as an insult, but it was difficult.

“Today was fun,” I offered, smiling in the face of his sunny attitude. “Apart from the death, those weird phantoms and losing my frappe.”

Rome quirked a brow. “That was not fun.” He said plainly.

I pulled my lips between my teeth, and my brows arched in a wide-eyed ‘yikes’expression. “Whatever you say,” I told him.

He met my eyes for a long moment before he nodded staunchly.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

It took two and a half hours to get back to the strip, and that wasn’t counting the detour to the target parking lot to collect my bags from the trunk of the Camaro.

Rome pulled up a few spaces down and leaned against the side of the red mustang as I made my way to the other car. My attention was fixed on the junkyard vehicle loading bits of scrap metal from the accident into the bed of the truck—both the old lady's car and the crushed man were nowhere to be seen. The area had been cordoned off with cones, and a Target employee directed people around.

It took a moment for me to realize that Rome hadn’t followed me to the Camaro. I glanced back, and he looked at me over the rim of his aviator sunglasses. He was holding a set of keys.

My brow furrowed. “Do you want me to drive the car back to the Bellagio?”

He shrugged. “I am not your babysitter.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I sauntered back over and held my hand out. When Rome didn’t immediately give me the keys, I gave him a long and exasperated look.

“I’m not going to cause any trouble,” I assured him. “I’m a good driver.”

Rome chuffed a laugh and shook his head. “Not my concern. Do not go searching for your old life. Car is freedom, but we only have so many freedoms. Do not hurt yourself by seeking the life that is gone.”

“When did you get so sage and wise?” I asked sarcastically, unwilling to show how much his words bothered me.

“I do not want you to get hurt,” Rome admitted, though he seemed troubled by admission. Frowning, he glanced to the side as if unsure if he had meant to say the words at all. “I am trying to save you from that hurt.”

I scoffed. “I’m not going to search for Cody,” I assured him. “He was a cheating asshole.”

“There was more to your old life than some adulterous man child.” Rome took off his sunglasses and looked at me. His dark eyes were bottomless with shadows under them. They appeared haunted in his pale alabaster face. “I do not joke.”

I rolled my eyes and reached for the keys.

He must have read something in my eyes because Rome nodded to himself. “What do you Americans say?It's your funeral?”

I gave him a sardonic smile and snatched the keys from his hand before sauntering over to the Camaro.

Chapter 7

I hadn’t lived with my father in years—moving out to a condo in Summerlin and then eventually a house in a gated community, once my subscriber count reached the millions.

Antony Rossi lived in a Mediterranean-style mansion in a neighborhood in Sun City, just a stone's throw from the Highland Falls golf club. He spent every Friday afternoon playing golf, after he left the office early.

I hadn’t spoken to my father in about a month. Our conversations were always stilted but timed as if we both kept the relationship going out of obligation.