Myra
Day 10.
The transition from the warmth of the bakery to the inside of Tony’s truck was a sharp, freezing wake-up call. It was a vehicle built for the mountains, sure-footed and intimidating, much like the man behind the wheel.
Tony gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He was staring through the windshield at the winding state highway toward the Rutberg with an intensity that had nothing to do with the ice.
"Relax, Tony," I said, checking my reflection in the visor mirror one last time. "It’s just a meeting. I’ve sat across from men who make Raphael Segretto look like a teddy bear."
"He's not a teddy bear," Tony muttered, shifting the truck into four wheel drive after we felt the tires slipping. "He’s a guy who could buy Mount Tabor for pocket change and turn the whole
