Read Online Cut and Run by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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memory. He had to allow for added age, a change in hair color or style, weight loss or gain, so he focused on the green eyes, the soft curve of her chin and the placement of her ears, finding a tiny, hooked scar in the hairs of the eyebrow above her left eye. He put no currency in the nameâAlice Frizen, Alice Dunbarâhe thought instead of carving lines into her, shallow at first, deeper when necessary, the beauty of the rich, sanguine red against pale skin.
A hole in the knee of his worn blue jeans revealed the dark skin of his Latin heritage. His knee bounced with the vibrations of the city bus. The fabric moved, including the forest green sweatshirt he wore, but not the body withinâevery muscle flexed and taut, a cat ready to pounce. With the hood of the sweatshirt pulled up, the manâs face remained like a monkâs, in dark shadow, so that the curious little girl who studied him so intently from the row in front of him could make out no distinguishing features. Just two eyes peering out, impossibly dark brown to the point of appearing black at the center. Those eyes looked down and returned to the crossword puzzle in his lap.
3 across:
A knot, not to be undone.
The five-year-old girl smiled at him and waved with the tips of her fingers so her mother wouldnât see. She clearly hoped for a smile, but she got nothing out of him.
Paolo ignored the girl, his attention on the puzzle and occasionally out the bus window, on the street numbers above or alongside the door of a passing building. He awaited a particular address. For all the rigidity of his muscles, he felt an internal calm. He followed instruction; he did as he was told. He felt eternally grateful for the opportunity heâd been given: a sense of family, a sense of
belonging
. Nothing, no one, would come close to stopping him.
Paolo had Philippe to thank for his training; he served him as a lieutenant serves his captain. It had crossed his mind more than once that his orders should have come directly from Ricardo, Philippeâs half brother, who now ran the Romero compound in his fatherâs âretirement.â Philippe did not sit on the council as Ricardo did, and was unlikely to have the authority to order this womanâs execution, but this was the woman responsible for putting Donny away, and so Paolo followed the orders. Philippe was tangled up in a family dispute, a power struggle to keep the family business in health care and insurance, while his worthless half brother was more of a street thug who favored cutting in on the Native American casinos and gaming. Paolo would follow Philippe to the grave, if asked. Ricardo was an arrogant, spoiled snot. If the bastard son, Philippe, was making a move for control of the Romero family, as it appeared, then Paolo would gladly assist the transition. Philippe carried a hard-on for his half brotherâs wife, an extremely fine-looking Italian woman named Katrina. Paolo grew heady with the thought of his own increased importance following the success of this job.
He felt the twinges of an erection and knew he must be close.
He looked up and caught a street number off a delicatessenâs window. Yes. Nearly there.
GORDIAN
. . . he wrote into the small boxes.
He reached for the button to signal the driver:
next stop.
Paolo scouted the back of the apartment building intent on finding an alternate point of entry. The crossword puzzle was now folded and tucked into a back pocket. He pulled down the sweatshirtâs hood, aware that he exposed his face by doing so, but wanting his ears in open air, his hearing in top form. He pursed his lips and inhaled through his nose, collecting the various odors of the back alleyâ
cats, stale beer, human urine, decomposing trash, motor oil
âwiggled the fingers of both hands like a butterfly drying its wings, and briefly closed his eyes, containing himself in darkness before opening them again and seeing everything around him as
A hole in the knee of his worn blue jeans revealed the dark skin of his Latin heritage. His knee bounced with the vibrations of the city bus. The fabric moved, including the forest green sweatshirt he wore, but not the body withinâevery muscle flexed and taut, a cat ready to pounce. With the hood of the sweatshirt pulled up, the manâs face remained like a monkâs, in dark shadow, so that the curious little girl who studied him so intently from the row in front of him could make out no distinguishing features. Just two eyes peering out, impossibly dark brown to the point of appearing black at the center. Those eyes looked down and returned to the crossword puzzle in his lap.
3 across:
A knot, not to be undone.
The five-year-old girl smiled at him and waved with the tips of her fingers so her mother wouldnât see. She clearly hoped for a smile, but she got nothing out of him.
Paolo ignored the girl, his attention on the puzzle and occasionally out the bus window, on the street numbers above or alongside the door of a passing building. He awaited a particular address. For all the rigidity of his muscles, he felt an internal calm. He followed instruction; he did as he was told. He felt eternally grateful for the opportunity heâd been given: a sense of family, a sense of
belonging
. Nothing, no one, would come close to stopping him.
Paolo had Philippe to thank for his training; he served him as a lieutenant serves his captain. It had crossed his mind more than once that his orders should have come directly from Ricardo, Philippeâs half brother, who now ran the Romero compound in his fatherâs âretirement.â Philippe did not sit on the council as Ricardo did, and was unlikely to have the authority to order this womanâs execution, but this was the woman responsible for putting Donny away, and so Paolo followed the orders. Philippe was tangled up in a family dispute, a power struggle to keep the family business in health care and insurance, while his worthless half brother was more of a street thug who favored cutting in on the Native American casinos and gaming. Paolo would follow Philippe to the grave, if asked. Ricardo was an arrogant, spoiled snot. If the bastard son, Philippe, was making a move for control of the Romero family, as it appeared, then Paolo would gladly assist the transition. Philippe carried a hard-on for his half brotherâs wife, an extremely fine-looking Italian woman named Katrina. Paolo grew heady with the thought of his own increased importance following the success of this job.
He felt the twinges of an erection and knew he must be close.
He looked up and caught a street number off a delicatessenâs window. Yes. Nearly there.
GORDIAN
. . . he wrote into the small boxes.
He reached for the button to signal the driver:
next stop.
Paolo scouted the back of the apartment building intent on finding an alternate point of entry. The crossword puzzle was now folded and tucked into a back pocket. He pulled down the sweatshirtâs hood, aware that he exposed his face by doing so, but wanting his ears in open air, his hearing in top form. He pursed his lips and inhaled through his nose, collecting the various odors of the back alleyâ
cats, stale beer, human urine, decomposing trash, motor oil
âwiggled the fingers of both hands like a butterfly drying its wings, and briefly closed his eyes, containing himself in darkness before opening them again and seeing everything around him as
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