“Dimitri is going to meet us back in Cuba for a few days.” Marcus said pouring a coffee the next day in Brian’s gorgeous indoor kitchen.
Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen had Italian marble as the main use of material. Stunning white countertops speckled with gray covered the area. An old black iron stove was as large as the outdoor BBQ. A bar lined with an adjoining circular breakfast table had light wooden stools against it, where I now took a seat and waited for that wonderful smelling cup of coffee.
I had not slept well the previous night and it was not because of the amount I had drunk. It was the unanswered question that I had asked Marcus.
Why won’t he let me go? He did not respond, only going to sleep with the out-loud belief that I would go to Interpol or som
