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“Mr. Romano,” one of the Andretti soldiers greeted with a dip of his head. Cordial, given the war that had only recently ended. “My name is Guilio.”
I followed him as he led us to a black Escalade. “Will you be escorting us the entire trip?”
He nodded. “However long it lasts.”
Asher and I slid into the back seat, followed by one of his guards. The rest split into the other Escalades as Guilio took the seat beside the driver.
I shot him Waylan’s address from one of the files.
Ten minutes later, we approached a ranch, well-kept and brimming with cows. It smelled like actual shit as we lowered the window and Waylan approached the SUV.
In a weird way, he looked like me. His face held a more weathered tan and sunspots, and he had weight in his midsection and chin that I didn’t, but he had the same general aesthetic—dark hair, dark eyes, and perhaps even a dark soul.
We’d see.
His curious eyes settled on me with eery precision.
He knew.
“What can I do y’all for?” he drawled.
Why did people say that?
I’d never understand the appeal of improper English.
I spared him a disinterested glance. “Hop in.”
“There are no empty seats.”
The driver pressed a button, and the trunk popped up.
Waylan’s eyes swung to the open trunk. “Y’all serious?” No one answered, so he continued, his head shaking, “No. I’m calling the cops.” He dragged his eyes to the fleet of bulletproof Andretti SUVs approaching.
“That doesn’t seem like a very smart thing to do, Waylan.” I cocked a brow up as I pulled my phone out, amused by his flinch. Most times, fear trumped guns when it came to threats. “Are you not a smart man?”
“I—”
The doors to the SUVs behind ours swung open, cutting Waylan off, and he scrambled around the car and into the trunk, using the inside lever to close it behind him.
I tossed a zip tie at him. “Tie yourself.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Asher had an amused grin on his face as he stared straight ahead. I’d given him the file when I entered the plane, so he’d been filled in.
After I rattled Elsa’s address to Guilio, the car started, and we headed to a nicer part of town.
“You’re him, aren’t ya?” Waylan’s voice inched toward me in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“I n-never meant to take the money. She stole my kid.”
I turned to him. “He’s not your son.”
“I made him—”
