25
Jeremy Welch waited on the roof of the twenty-floor headquarters of Mainline Oil. He checked his gold Rolex. De Luca was late. Always late. Welch looked out through a pair of designer sunglasses. Phoenix was cooking. But up at the top of the building, where his light-grey Armani suit ruffled in the breeze, it was cool.
And quiet, too.
One of the usual spots for his meets with De Luca. And here the man was, stepping out of the door onto the roof—Marco, his right-hand man, in tow. As they strode across the rooftop, Welch removed his sunglasses. "This had better be worth it," he said. "I had to cancel my physio for this."
"You'll get another appointment," De Luca said, stopping in front of Welch close to the corner of the roof.
"What the hell happened to you?" Welch said, eyeing Marco
