He groans and closes his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he replies. “Fine.”
Then he turns to me. I can’t help but smile at the two of them.
“I think you should still get Poncho a glass of water though.”
Her lips pucker, but she doesn’t want to be difficult. She knows she’s won the battle, so she’s willing to make this small concession.
“Okay!” she chirps before disappearing.
Her father turns to me. His smile drops at once. “Who are you connected to?”
“No one anymore,” I answer honestly. “I’m a dead man walking.”
I vaguely remember Esme dragging Artem away. Even if he survived Budimir’s gunshot—unlikely—and even if they managed to stay one step ahead of Budimir’s men after that—even more unlikely—then they’re going to be staying undercover for a long time. Finding them will be impossible. Especially since they probably think I’m dead, too.
So, just like when I was exiled from Ireland twelve years ago…
I’m on my own again.
“Are there people out there who’re looking for you?”
“Like I said, not anymore.”
“Can I trust you in my home?”
This question is perhaps the most important. Mostly because what he’s really asking me is, can he trust me with his daughter?
“A hundred percent,” I say with all the seriousness I can muster. “You can trust me.”
He watches my face for any giveaway. In the end, he must not see anything questionable, because he nods and relaxes. “That better be true.”
He falls silent as Carla returns with a glass of water in hand. She’s panting a little and I know she’s hurried back, eager not to miss anything.
She walks to me confidently and hands me the glass.
“Why, thanks, little miss,” I say, taking the glass from her with a nod.
I down the glass in a few seconds, realizing just how thirsty I am. There’s nothing like a glass of cool water when you’re parched as fuck.
“Fuck, that was good.”
“Language.”
“Fuck me. Sorry.”
The man glares at me, but Carla giggles.
Clearly, I’ve won her over.
“I’m Diego Hernandez,” the man says, introducing himself. “And this is my little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl!” she insists. “I’m almost eleven.”
“Big girl, then,” he corrects with a half-hidden grin.
“And this is Gaspar,” Carlita adds, pointing out the dog that keeps moving between her and her father.
“It’s nice to meet you all,” I say, with a smile. “Now, I have one burning question: who is Poncho?”