Page 79 of Jetmir

“They are making him comfortable, but he won’t last much longer.”

“I’m so sorry. I know he meant a lot to you.”

“Well, now a small piece of him will stay with us,” he said, voice low. “In the family.”

I rested both my forearms on the desk and Elira looked between us. “I didn’t even know Mateo was ill.”

“He kept it private,” Giovanni replied. The moment lingered before Giovanni continued. “I won’t tell your mom I talked to you. But my advice is to hurry and get your wife on your side. Raphael Santos and his men aren’t stupid. They are using a process of elimination in terms of where you’re hiding. Eventually, they’ll come to the same conclusion as I’m drawing.”

I scoffed. “You have some Tijuana blood in you, so you don’t count.”

“I’m not sure if I should say thank you or fuck you,” he drawled.

“Probably fuck you,” I grumbled.

For a moment, we remained silent.

“We’re not our ancestors, Jetmir. I’m as much a Tijuana as you and Elira are,” Giovanni said, his tone somber. “Trust me when I tell you, we’re nothing like them.”

“So we are like Volkovs? That’s… comforting.”

“You are your own person, Jetmir,” he claimed. “That’s the only thing to be certain of.”

The line disconnected, leaving the library silent, save for the soft ticking of the antique clock on the far wall.

I remained seated, staring at the now-dark screen.

By agreeing to donate his corneas to Anya’s brother, Mateo Agosti had unknowingly given me an opportunity to fix my wrongdoings.

Yet, somehow the outcome wasn’t exactly a victory.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ANYA

Iwoke up and turned my head to glance at the clock on the nightstand, then remembered I wasn’t in my own room. I reached for the Kindle and opened it, the time of 3:00 AM reflected in the corner of it. Putting the Kindle back, I lay for a moment listening to the night. The house was quiet and so was the island. The only light seemed to shine from the moon high in the sky.

Sitting up, I slid my legs over and stood up. My bare feet touched the cool hardwood and I headed out of the room. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I creaked my door open and tiptoed down the hallway and stairs, and headed into the kitchen for a glass of liquid. I was dying for a glass of tequila.

Once in the kitchen, I started scavenging through the cabinets for a bottle of something to relax me. Hopefully tequila, although I didn’t hold much hope to find a bottle. I was opening the last cabinet when my mouth parted into a silent O. There was a shelf stocked with top tequila brands.

“Holy shit,” I whispered to myself. “It’s 1942 Don Julio.”

I smiled smugly and reached for it. I didn’t bother with a fancy glass. Instead, I grabbed a sixteen-ounce beer glass, filled it all the way to the top, and took a long sip, letting the tequila settle over my tongue.

My eyes wandered around the kitchen while I drank. That was when I noticed the old radio sitting in the corner. It was the kind of antique thing I’d only ever seen in pictures and dusty catalogues. Its wooden casing was scratched and worn, the knobs dulled with age.

I crossed the room and turned the dial. Nothing. I tried again.

A burst of static crackled through the room, making me flinch. I twisted the knob a little farther, and after a few more attempts, the radio suddenly sputtered to life.

Music spilled into the room and for half of a second I stood frozen. Tunes of “Sex with My Ex” by Henry Morris drifted through the moonlit kitchen.

“How convenient,” I muttered as a soft laugh escaped me.

The universe clearly had a sense of humor.

I took another sip, letting the song settle into my bones. My shoulders began to sway. Then my hips followed. I set the glass against my lips and moved sensually with the beat.