Charlie #3
But after a while, the names and places start registering—someone named Giuseppe, a warehouse, the “Atlantic corridor,” and “traceable assets.”
Constantine has a pen in one hand and a tablet in the other, tapping the screen every few seconds, sometimes to show Nikolaus a number or a graph.
Nikolaus doesn’t seem to notice the way my legs keep tensing up on his thigh.
He wipes a stray droplet of broth from my mouth with the edge of his thumb, then returns to the conversation in the same breath.
“If their numbers are accurate, that means we’re shorted by at least thirty percent.
They’re either skimming or shifting the drop point. ”
“If it’s skimming, Franco’s crew will plug the leak in under a week.
If it’s the second, we have to reassess our schedule and start moving the product earlier than planned.
” Constantine’s voice is hard to match to his face—so even, so practiced and uninflected.
“I’ve already lined up a new contact in Red Bank, but it’ll require a higher cut. If you’re comfortable with that.”
Nikolaus’s arm curls a little tighter around my waist. “Go higher if you need to. I’d rather take the loss than get caught holding a dead drop. I want a buffer for the next two cycles, and a double-check on every transit between here and the Delaware line. Is that doable?”
Constantine turns the tablet toward him, showing a string of numbers in pale blue columns. “I’ll need to use some cash reserves. We’ve already fronted most of the float for April.”
“Do it,” Nikolaus says, pressing his thumb against my lower lip until I open for the next spoonful. “Take whatever you need from the discretionary. If we lose this run, it puts a target on our backs. You know the rest.”
Constantine nods, eyes flicking at me for the barest second before returning to his screen. “Is there anything else I should know about before I call Franco?”
“Not now,” Nikolaus replies, a finality in his tone that makes Constantine set down the tablet. “We’ll circle back tomorrow. Today I need to focus on Charlie.”
“Understood,” Constantine says, and leaves without another word.
Later, after dinner, when Nikolaus brings me back up to my room, I’m not feeling as little as I had been earlier in the day, so as Nikolaus is sitting in the big rocking chair, watching me paint a farm with watercolors, I decide to be brave.
I look up from the muddy green field I’m trying to paint—the cows are weirdly lopsided, and the barn’s roof keeps bleeding into the sky—and find him smiling at me like I’m the only thing worth watching in the room. It makes my face get hot, so I look back down at the page.
“Can I um… ask you something?”
Nikolaus’s head tilts. “Anything, sweetheart.”
I rinse my brush in the water jar, watching the color swirl out. “What language were you speaking? With the men at the hotel.” I remember the sharp edges of it, the way the syllables snapped together—nothing like the round, relaxed English he used with me.
“Greek,” he says, with a hint of surprise that I noticed.
“Oh.” I let the brush fall to the table and pick at a frayed bit of paper towel. “Are you Greek?”
He laughs warmly. “I am. My parents moved here when I was very young. My mother didn’t want me to lose the language, so we spoke it a lot at home.” There’s a softening in his face as he says it.
“You must be really good at languages. I mean, you speak English like you were born here.”
He shrugs, but there’s something pleased in his eyes. “I liked school. I liked learning to sound like everyone else.” He watches me smudge the sky into the barn roof. “But I never lost the accent, not completely. I can hear it, anyway.”
A flush starts in my face, and I can’t tell if I’m embarrassed for asking or for liking the way he talks. “It’s not bad. I mean— I like it. You sound… warm. Like you’d be good at telling bedtime stories.”
His head tips back, and he actually laughs, a real laugh that fills the whole room. “My baby is a flatterer.” Then, softer, he says, “I could read to you, if you’d like. In Greek, or English.” My hands twist the paper towel into a little damp cord.
“Would you?” The words come out small, and when I look up, he’s already smiling at me.
“Of course, sweetheart.” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge in it, a tease. “You just have to tell me what kind of story you want.”
I can’t think of a single answer, so I duck my head and start painting bright orange lines for the sun, pretending I meant to smudge it all along. “Maybe later? I can’t think of anything right now.”
“Later it is, then.”
A few minutes pass before I set down my brush and ask, “Can you say something in Greek? Not like a story, just something short?”
Nikolaus’s eyes spark, and he straightens a little in the rocker, like this is the easiest thing I’ve ever asked of him.
“What should I say?” he murmurs, but it sounds mostly like a question for himself.
Then, after a second, he says, “Come here,” in English, but with a little hitch at the end, a cue, and I don’t realize he means it literally until he pats his lap.