Lunch And Outings
Lunch And Outings
THREE DAYS LATER...
The afternoon sun hung heavy and bright over the Cimaro estate. Heat shimmered above the stone pathways. Gabriella had left earlier in a black SUV, a full security detail riding with her—Alphonso among them, eyes constantly moving.
Andreas had watched the car roll through the gates without visible concern. He trusted the men assigned to her. The estate felt quieter in her absence, the usual low hum of activity reduced to the distant sound of water in the pool filters and the occasional call of birds in the high hedges.
Andre sat alone at a long table set in the shade near the pool. White plates held grilled meat, fresh bread, olives, and a large glass bowl of chilled watermelon cut into glistening red wedges. A carafe of cold water beaded with condensation. He ate slowly, the picture of a man with time and power to spare.
Jay approached from the house, footsteps soft on the stone. “Police chief is here.”
Andre did not look up from his plate. “Let him in.”
A few moments later, Chief Silas walked across the patio. He stopped several paces from the table and remained standing, hands loose at his sides, the set of his shoulders tight. The sunlight caught the tired lines around his eyes.
Andre gestured to the empty chair opposite him with his fork. “Sit. Eat something. You look like you haven't had a meal in decades. You should take better care of yourself, Chief.”
Silas shook his head once. “You know why I'm here, Cimaro. I didn't come to eat lunch with you.”
Andre’s expression cooled. He set the fork down with deliberate care. “Don’t be rude in my house, Chief. Sit.”
Silas still hesitated. Jay, standing a short distance behind Andre, let his hand drift noticeably toward the weapon at his hip. The movement was small but unmistakable. Silas saw it. A short, frustrated breath left him. He pulled out the chair and sat. Andre watched in silence until the older man reached for a piece of watermelon, took a bite, and chewed.
“I’ve sat,” Silas said, voice low and strained. “I’ve eaten. Now speed this up. Lucy’s freedom. You’ve stalled long enough. How are you planning to get her out, and when?”
Andre wiped his fingers on a linen napkin, took a sip of water, and leaned back slightly. “It happens tomorrow. By this time, she’ll be outside the walls as a fugitive. If the road gets hard for her after that, she can even come work for the Cobras. I’ve already paid the guard who will open the doors and aid her in her escape. Contact your daughter today. Have her and the guard meet so the plan can begin on schedule.”
Silas studied him across the table, searching for any crack in the calm. “Can I trust this? Really trust it? How can I believe that this crazy plan of yours is going to work?”
Andre met his eyes without blinking. “We’re partners now, and you've already proven your loyalty more than once to me. I would never betray that partnership. You have my word.”
The two men held the stare for several long seconds. Finally, Silas gave a single, reluctant nod. He stood, pushed the chair back, and left without another word. The sound of his car faded down the long drive.
When the quiet returned, Jay stepped closer and spoke in a voice meant only for Andre.
“The truck she’ll be under is prepared. When it leaves the prison, the whole thing burns. Nothing left that points back to us.”
Andre’s mouth curved in quiet, cold satisfaction. He picked up his fork again and returned to his lunch as if the entire matter had already been resolved.
.
.
.
At the Rossi mansion, the afternoon air was cooler under the shade of the old trees. Carla stepped out of the main entrance with purposeful strides and began giving sharp orders to a nearby King’s Gold soldier.
“Bring my car around. Now. I’m heading out.”
The man moved quickly. While the black vehicle was driven from the garage toward the front steps, Lancelot appeared from the direction of the Knights’ wing. He caught her wrist—not hard, but firmly enough to stop her—and turned her to face him.
“Three days,” he said. The usual arrogance was tempered by something closer to genuine irritation. “You haven’t made time. Not a single visit. I’m starting to take it personally.”
Carla pulled her hand free and adjusted the strap of the heavy bag on her shoulder. “I’m busy. In case you hadn’t noticed, the clan has serious problems right now. Warehouses, Sailors, security holes. I don’t have time for distractions or games.”
Lancelot’s tone softened, though his eyes remained sharp and searching. “Then tell me what’s wrong. We’ve already crossed the bridge where you keep everything from me. Talk.”
She let out a short, angry sigh, glanced once toward the approaching car, then relented. “The Sailors are becoming a real thorn. It’s time they were handled properly. Carolina located their current hideout. She even has someone on the inside who’s willing to talk.” Carla lifted the bag just enough for him to see the stacked cash inside.
“I’m on my way to pay the spy. He’ll give us what we need on Damien—routines, numbers, weaknesses—so we can hit him at the perfect moment and end this.”
“That sounds like a brilliant idea. Definitely King's Gold style for dealing with unrelenting enemies. I’m coming with you,” Lancelot said at once.
“No. I don't need you to babysit me.”
“I’m not asking for your permission.”
When the car stopped at the base of the steps, he opened the passenger door and climbed in without waiting for her word. Carla stood on the gravel for a second longer, jaw tight, then walked around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.
The heavy gates of the estate rolled open. The black car pulled out onto the road, carrying both of them toward the meeting that would decide the next strike against the Black Sailors.