He makes a winding gesture with his free hand, as if amending his words. “Ms. Flowers, then. Nevertheless, you’re a very lucky woman.”
“She’s a very smart girl.”
He gives a slow hum. “Like her mother, perhaps.”
Smart or not, I’m not stupid enough to miss the blatant threat. Do as I say, and I just might let you live. “You still aren’t talking,” I point out.
“My apologies. Let me start over,” he clears his throat. “My name is Carmine.”
I notice he pronounces it as Car-mee-neh. It’s not a common name, not by a long shot; I’m unsure how you’d even spell it.
But then, as if reading my thoughts, he adds, “Ah, but I know that’s a little bit tricky to say for you Americans. Feel free to call me ‘Carmine,’ like the color. I always did like red, after all.”
I don’t give a rat’s ass what you
