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"Creating new connections with importers, deciding which containers to search, hiring and firing, employee issues. The usual workplace kind of thing. Do you like wine?" he asked, reaching up into a cabinet. "I'd ask if you want whiskey, but I don't think you were a fan of that," he added, giving me a smirk.
"Wine is my drink of choice," I told him. Even though I was pretty sure he was not someone who kept my favorite three-dollar bottle of cab sav in his million-dollar home. "If you inspect the containers, how is it possible that someone could traffick people in?"
"We don't inspect every container. You've been watching. You know how many come in on the average week. It's impossible to inspect more than a small fraction. Some we... choose not to inspect," he told me as he handed me a wine glass, and I knew what he was telling me. That part of their business was being paid to look the other way, to inspect other containers. Because what was in some of them couldn't be seen. And that was likely where they made a large chunk of their money—from other criminals who paid them to walk past their containers. "And sometimes containers come from very reputable sources, so there is no need to check them."
"Is that the loophole, then?" I asked, making his head pop up, brows furrowing.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm no expert, but is it possible that someone could take over a reputable, long-standing import business, and then ship things in right under your nose because they have been someone you've worked with for so long?"
He stared at me for long enough for my stomach to flip-flop, sure I had just said something completely idiotic.
"It is," he told me, voice a little rough. "That is completely possible," he added, moving away from his untouched wine glass, grabbing his phone. "Angelo. Tomorrow morning. Six," he told him, hanging up. "I don't know why we haven't thought of that."
"It's just an idea," I said, shrugging.
"Don't play it down. It could be important. We will know more over the next few days. How's the wine?" he asked.
The rest of the evening went much like that.
Small talk—though we moved away from crime talk, choosing instead to discuss family—about my upbringing, about my initial thoughts when I first visited Venezuela, how it felt leaving it behind after building a life there.
Over the lasagna and garlic bread, we discussed my decision to go into interpreting, talking about my love of language, how I'd been speaking Spanish since birth but then majored in Mandarin because that was the third most spoken language in this country, that it would give me an advantage over others applying for jobs who maybe only spoke English and Spanish.
It was the deepest, longest conversation I had ever had with someone who wasn't related to me. My throat was actually a little sore after we finished cleaning up, both tired, but awkwardly dragging our feet about heading to bed.
I finally made it to mine sometime after nine, sure I would climb into the bed and pass right out, but instead, I lay awake, scrolling through the highlights of our conversations—the sound of his laugh on occasion, something I thought must have been rare for him, and therefore special, the way his eyes lit up when he told stories about his family's antics, the way he reached out across the table to place his hand over mine when I had struggled to speak of my mother's passing.
There was no denying the whole interaction was different, deeper, more intimate.
Intimate.
That was the right word.
I felt connected to him.
I felt like he'd wiggled way in without me even realizing, that he was a small part of me now.
It was a sweet, warm feeling.
But it wasn't long before that warm feeling got a lot less sweet.
It curled down my body, making my breathing fast and shallow, making my breasts feel heavy, making an aching need grow between my legs.
I didn't really think about it.
I didn't want to think about it.
I got back out of bed, went out into the hall, stopped in front of Luca's door, and then, before I could think better of it, I raised my hand and knocked.
There was hardly a pause before the door swung open, before Luca moved into the doorway, his body backlit from the city lights across the Navesink River, making his skin—bare from the waist up—fall into delicious little shadows that dared me to explore them.
Which was exactly what I planned to do.
Chapter Eleven
Romy
