Vanessa
“I’ve got two hundred kilos of cocaine.”
I stop myself from gasping when I hear, to my left, the scraping of a chair’s legs under the table. The owner of the voice—Dre Moncrief, I suppose—sits down calmly, leaving me only a view of two legs in gray jeans.
I freeze, straining to catch the rest of the conversation and praying he never moves his feet forward.
“And?”
“And I can sell it to you for half price, Angel. Maybe we can wipe away the conflicts of the past with this gift, no?”
Angel’s sinister little laugh creeps under my skin. It reeks of contempt but reveals above all a cruelty that chills the blood. Not something I’ll forget anytime soon.
“Why would you do that? Huh, Dre?”
“You asked me to prove myself—well, here’s the proof.”
“You f****d up an uncountable number of
