Page 95 of Contempt

He’d turned in to follow Christian’s car, because he figured he needed to know where the asshole was going after that whole meeting at the restaurant with John and Lucia, but the vehicle had vanished.

Apparently, into thin air.

In one of these warehouses, maybe?

But why?

Renzo eyed the row of warehouses, and let his mind run crazy. He’d been maybe twenty car lengths behind Christian’s vehicle, and he’d been careful not to seem like he was following the idiot. Lucia’s rental was a white Benz, and not the standard black car that most of the Marcellos and their associates seemed to prefer.

It was highly unlikely that the fucker driving Christian’s car had believed someone was following him. So, if that wasn’t what made them turn down this row of warehouses, then what was the fucking reason?

What was back here?

Renzo couldn’t stay around here thinking about it, and fucking the dog for too long. For one, because he didn’t want to be caught back here by one of Christian’s men if they did end up coming out of one of these warehouses. And for two, because he needed to get Lucia’s car back to her so that he could see her safely to the hotel where she would be protected.

Ugh.

What he wanted to do was scream.

Renzo had done a lot of jobs for The League—recon missions, a couple of jobs where explosives needed to be used; a robbery of a major bank in another country where someone’s money had been held without authorization. Quite a few hits on big names in this country, and around the world. He’d done several rescue or recovery missions, and learned he preferred those.

Point was, he’d done a lot.

Why was this the one he found the most frustrating?

Oh, no … Renzo knew.

Because what was he even doing?

He didn’t know.

He doubted anyone knew.

What a waste of fucking time.

Renzo had the greatest urge to shout out his frustrations, but he held it back. Yanking open the driver’s door to the white Benz, he leaned in and grabbed the phone sitting on the passenger seat. Turning it on, he swiped to a GPS app he used to track the vehicle Christian preferred to use when his men drove him around. The one he’d been in today.

He’d put a tracker under the car when Christian’s men hadn’t been paying attention one day at the man’s hotel. He had the chance, so he took it. Today, it was going to do him a bit of good.

Once he’d gotten the app up and running, Renzo waited for the damn dot to start blinking on the screen to tell him where in this maze of warehouses Christian went. It took ten seconds before the dot showed, and Renzo blinked at the screen.

He wasn’t in any warehouse, now.

He was back on the fucking road!

Renzo clenched his teeth—apparently, by the looks of the moving dot on the screen, he was heading toward his hotel again.

Jesus Christ.

Maybe the man had known someone was following him.

What game was Christian playing?

Renzo figured he should probably get the car back to Lucia, grab his own rental, and then decide what he was going to do from there. Whether he should continue to follow Christian, or consider this day a total loss to his job.

The phone started ringing in his hand, and Renzo resisted the urge to throw it against the ground. The name on the screen prevented him from smashing the phone to bits, but also sent his irritation spiking a little higher.

Funny how that worked.