Chancellor (Ruthless Paradise Book 3) by Lexi Ray

Author:Lexi Ray [Ray, Lexi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-11-29T16:00:00+00:00

31

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I call Slate right away and tell him to take several guys to Port Mrei and locate the kid Droga was talking about.

“Be nice, yeah?” I say. “He is a guest. Tell him that the tattooed gentleman from Ayana and his lady want to talk to him. Bring him to the side docks at Ayana and call me when you get there.”

A guest.

Jesus. If I could be any nicer to people—some homeless kid at that—I would’ve thrown up in my mouth in amusement at myself.

I pour myself a drink. It’s afternoon. And I savor the first sip as I sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling.

I’m not doing this for the kid but for Droga. It will give me a chance to meet with him.

It’s only half an hour and not even the full drink down when Slate calls again, informing me they are at the docks.

My heart leaps in anticipation as I leave the villa, and three minutes later park my bike at the south docks.

The kid is…well, a kid.

He gives me a hostile look that changes to curiosity as I walk up to him and study him with amusement.

He’s barefoot, in torn shorts and a stained shirt several sizes too big. Smelly, too. I wonder how many kids like him live on the streets.

“Sonny Little,” he says businesslike and stretches his hand to me for a shake.

I can’t help but smile, hearing the guards’ sneers, and shake his little hand, wondering where it’s been and how many days—weeks—since it’s been washed.

“Who came up with the name?” I ask him as I pass Slate an adult life jacket that he puts on the kid against his struggle. He is like a naughty puppy, I swear. Seeing a kid on Ayana is weird to say the least.

“Guys on th’ street,” he says proudly like he is part of some gang.

I’m not taking Slate with me. It’s one of the few times I leave Ayana without security.

The kid’s eyes light up with excitement when I steer the boat into the deep waters and fire up the engine. With his chin-length tangled hair blowing in the wind, he looks like a baby bird peeking out of a nest, his head too small over the adult-size life jacket.

There’s no fear in his eyes that study me openly, stuffing his mouth with chips that Slate must’ve gotten to bribe him.

“You, like, the big boss or somethin’?” he asks, squinting at me in the sun and slightly sliding back and forth on the bench as I steer the boat east. His speech is awful—those swollen words, the street lingo.

I nod and throttle down so he is more comfortable.

“And the other guy? Who talk’ to me a week ago? Inked to here.” He raises a hand to his neck.

Droga.

“My friend,” I say. I wish we still were.

He turns and studies the island, wide-eyed, forgetting the chips for the next half an hour. His world has just expanded tenfold. He’s probably never left Port Mrei before.

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